Not One of Them
by President Luthor
Summary: Oliver Queen and Jax Teller. One man is a vigilante who fights to save his city by any means. The other is an outlaw who struggles to protect his family and keep his motorcycle club whole. A NW gangland war is about to explode. In this life they've chosen, they better have soul - nothing less. The Reaper has marked their fates. The question is: is survival still in their hands?
1. Episode 1

**FX TV series _Sons of Anarchy +_ ****CW TV series _Arrow_ : a ****crossover story**

Synopsis: Captain Lance and the Starling City PD has been putting the heat on the Sons of Anarchy MC Starling City charter, as the city cracks down on organized crime in the aftermath of the Sebastian Blood scandal. With the pressure threatening to derail SAMCRO's gun-running and drugs operation with the Real IRA and the powerful Galindo Cartel, Jax and SAMCRO travel to Oliver Queen's hometown to show support for a brother charter in crisis – and cross the Arrow's path.

The crow flies straight …and SAMCRO is about to turn Team Arrow's world upside down. You better have soul – nothing less, if you want to keep your city safe or your motorcycle club whole.

Rating: It's _SOA_ , so expect some mature subject matter and coarse language. As it's also in the _Arrow_ world, it probably won't be as much as on FX.

Timeline: In the Arrow universe, events occur soon after Oliver's return from the dead in S3. In the SOA universe, it is shortly after SAMCRO narrowly votes in favour of the Galindo cartel - Irish Kings gun-running deal in S4.

* * *

Story 1: **"Not One of Them"**

(10 miles outside Starling City)

Jax Teller laughed as his SAMCRO brothers joked and teased each other at the suburban Denny's restaurant. His blond hair was now cropped short after his release from prison. Life was good for the Sons of Anarchy Motorcycle Club Redwood Original: the mother charter of one of the outlaw biker gangs struggling to survive in the North West.

The club's recent deal to run guns for the IRA and mule cocaine for the Mexican cartel was profitable. He was making bank and this would provide him with the financial means to one day leave the club's volatile history behind. He was going to change the club for the better and – knock on wood – make a better life for Tara and their boys.

Thomas and Abel. Everything he was doing was for them.

 _So that they won't turn out like their old man._ Jax grimaced. They deserve better.

Bobby waddled to Jax's table with a newspaper. "Get a load of this. Starling's got some crazy vigilante jumping off rooftops. They say he dresses up like Robin Hood. And, he uses arrows."

Jax picked up the newspaper and read the headline: "THE ARROW FOILS DRUG-RUNNING SCHEME AT DOCKS. REPORTS SUGGEST A YAKUZA ASSOCIATION."

"You think this clown is going to cause blowback for us in the streets?" Bobby said.

Jax smirked. "If this guy wants to get his kicks running meth-heads and sushi gangbangers out of his hood, more power to him. It's a beef that's got nothing to do with us. It's local shit. A Starling City underworld problem - not ours."

"But what if this Robin Hood dude doesn't want to play nice while we're in Starling?" Bobby said.

Jax shrugged. "SAMCRO will do what it's always done – look out for its own and get things done."

"We've got Glocks and automatic weapons," Opie, Jax's best friend, said. "This guy's got what – a bow and a couple of arrows?"

"Opie is right," Tig said. "The Arrow won't be a problem for us. We got this."

"That's why we're here, boys," Jax said. "The Starling City charter's been taking some serious heat from the local cops, who are trying to run them out of the Glades. We're headed to their clubhouse now. They're handling the northern transportation and storage end of our deal with the Irish and the Galindo Cartel. We're just here to lock this down – that's all. We go home the moment it's done."

SAMCRO revved their Harleys and motored out of the parking lot. Behind the large "Welcome to Starling City" billboard, an unmarked sedan idled in the darkness.

Captain Quentin Lance peered at the motorcycle gang with binoculars. "You sure about this, Laurel?"

Laurel Lance, his daughter (and the local assistant district attorney) nodded. "San Joaquin County Sheriff's Department gave us the heads-up last night. The intel is good. I know what you're thinking, but I did my due diligence. Lieutenant Roosevelt is clean. He's a good cop and definitely not on the payroll of the Sons of Anarchy Motorcycle Club."

"You know, out on the streets, they just call them SAMCRO. Or, _Crows_ for short," Quentin said. "The Starling charter's got a clubhouse out in the Glades, but we've been tightening the screws on them since the fallout of the Blood scandal. So we know the mother charter's in town – now what?"

Laurel borrowed her father's binoculars and watched the motorcycles disappear over the horizon. She thought of a recent case that passed her desk. A shootout at the docks involving the SAMCRO Starling charter and an Asian gang resulted in an unsolved murder. The street's code of silence had killed the case – and left the dead security guard's widow with a newborn son and little hope.

"We're getting justice for that guard's widow," Laurel said, "and, if we play our cards right, we can get the Sons of Anarchy out of Starling City. They've held the Glades for too long. It's time we fry a few crows."

The Sons of Anarchy MC (Starling Charter) clubhouse was in a seedy part of the Glades. The neighbourhood had once been home to swanky jazz clubs during the Prohibition era but it had fallen from grace since the '60s. Now it was full of grimy pawn shops, cheque-cashing stores and adult video warehouses.

Roy Harper, the vigilante known as Arsenal, noticed several motorcycles rumble down the street. This was his turf. Oliver Queen aka the Arrow may be a vigilante of the streets but he was born into privilege – he could never understand how people in the Glades survived day by day. Roy grew up here. The Sons of Anarchy MC was as much a part of the Glades as Queen Enterprises was part of Starling City's downtown core.

A young woman in a leather jacket and close-cropped jet black hair strolled towards him. It was Sin, Roy's street-savvy friend.

"You heard about this, Roy?" she said as she glanced towards the bikers. "I hear Jax Teller's in town. He just rolled in with a bunch of his crew." SCPD had been pressuring the local charter for weeks, but if Teller was in town it was becoming a larger MC issue.

"The V.P. of SAMCRO?" Roy asked. "How do you know?" He thought he knew all the major players in the Glades underworld, so it was surprising that he didn't hear about Jax's arrival in Starling until now.

"A friend of mine is the old lady of the Starling charter's sergeant-at-arms," Sin said. The sergeant-at-arms was responsible for enforcing discipline in the MC.

"If Teller is in Starling, it must be important," Roy said. "It might have something to do with what went down at the docks a few weeks ago."

"Word is the Asians stepped on Russian turf, the Sons tried to broker a peace," Sin said. "Something happened and it went sideways fast. A security guard was killed."

"The Sons have been good for the Glades," Roy said. Oliver, Diggle, Laurel and Felicity would see them as nothing more than a criminal gang, but they were not from the street.

Roy was. He believed he had the pulse of the Glades – its people, its gangs, its power brokers.

The Glades were always a violent place, but all the players had their own turf. Disagreements were dealt with, gang to gang, with no outside involvement. It was a tolerable cold war that rarely spilled into public places such as parks and schoolyards. Problems arose when outsiders did show up. The Arrow had removed some of the seedier elements in this world, but he had upset the precarious balance that had kept the Glades from ripping itself apart. Newer and more violent players were now taking advantage of this.

Sons of Anarchy founder John Teller – Jax's late father – helped to found the Sons' Starling City MC (SAMSTAR) in 1971 and had a role in making the peace when he kept the Glades from crumbling into chaos many years ago. The Russians, or someone associated with them, had broken this peace. Roy knew that the Glades would soon become a gangland warzone again. No one would be safe then.

Sin noticed that one of the crow eaters, part of the groupies and hangers-on who partied with the club, waved to her. "It's Marnie. I'll see what I can find out. Don't worry, I'll be discreet."

Roy looked at the row of Harleys parked in the backlot. The Sons were outlaws. He knew they ran guns, but at the same time they avoided the dirtier crimes of other clubs: the drugs, prostitution, human trafficking and so on. As far as he knew.

He lived in the Glades long enough to know that the Sons of Anarchy were part of the fabric of this town.

For the moment he put aside his concerns. An elderly neighbourhood friend had given him a broken-down Harley to work on and he ran into the house to retrieve his tools. He was going to ride that bike someday.

At the clubhouse parking lot, Jax took a drag from his cigarette. He noticed a rider with a red hoodie run into his house. A grimy-looking motorcycle stood on the curb.

When Roy returned from the house, his veins froze. Jax Teller was admiring his motorcycle. Jax's leather cut bore the MC's grinning Reaper logo on the back. In the front, the cut had patches indicating that Jax was 'V. President' and was also part of the MC's 'Men of Mayhem'. There was no way he would dare to ask the VP of SAMCRO about the meaning of that patch.

"Is that a vintage Heritage Softail?" Jax said, stomping the butt of his cigarette into the road.

"From 1983," Roy said nervously. "The seat needs to be re-upholstered, a few parts are missing …"

Jax whistled softly. "And the engine's shot to shit. It's gonna need a lot of work."

"It's practically scrap metal. I doubt I'll ever be able to ride it."

"SAMSTAR runs an auto body shop near the port. You probably heard of Jim's Auto Works, up on Industrial Road. They do some Harley work on the side - mostly for wannabe corporate pricks who only ride two weeks in the summer. I could check if they have any spare parts for old Softails."

"That would help. Thanks." Roy was nervous as hell but Jax was being friendly. "I'm Roy Harper."

"Jax Teller. My old man was one of -."

"—SAMCRO's First 9. One of the club's original members. I know. All of the Glades knows. John Teller's a bit of a folk hero here. He helped to build SAMSTAR. Did a bunch of charity rides for the children's hospital back in the day. There probably wouldn't be a local hospital here if it wasn't for him."

"Sounds just like my dad," Jax said. "If you're part of the Glades, then you're one of us." He scowled at the gleaming high-rise towers of downtown Starling City, where the rich and powerful dwelled and ruled the masses. He nodded towards the towers and sneered. "And not one of _them_."

Roy looked at the office towers and understood. Those towers and boardrooms, they weren't his world. They were Oliver Queen's. And as much as Roy respected – even believed in – Oliver's street crusade, the Glades would always be foreign to the heir of the Queen legacy. "Yeah. Not one of them."

"I've got club business, but it was nice talking to you, bro. Come by the auto body shop at week's end. If anyone gives you any beef, tell 'em Jax sent you. We look out for our own. If we're lucky, we can get that piece of junk whole again. Take care of that bike – a beauty like that was made to roar."

Sin passed by Jax on the sidewalk.

"How's it going, darlin'?" Jax winked at her. Sin grinned bashfully.

When Jax returned to the clubhouse, Sin punched Roy in the shoulder.

"What the hell just happened?"

"I think I just became a friend of Jax Teller."

 **To be continued …**

[Author's note: This may become an episodic story but for the moment, it may be just a series of short stories blending the world of SAMCRO and the Arrow universe.]


	2. Episode 2

Story 2: **"Grapple Them Unto Thy Soul"**

Laurel arrived at the Starling City D.A.'s office expecting to spend time going over legal files for the day's court session. The people's case against a Sons of Anarchy associate had gone cold – witnesses had either recanted their testimony or disappeared.

When she opened her office door, she found a wiry bearded man in skinny khakis sitting at her desk, eating a bag of almonds. His feet were resting atop her desk.

"Who are you?" Laurel demanded.

The stranger extended his hand. "Lincoln Potter, Assistant U.S. Attorney."

Laurel gave her hand warily. "Laurel Lance, Starling A.D.A."

"I spoke with your father Capt. Lance earlier," Lincoln said. "I heard about the cold case with Mickey Halloran, a known patch member of the Sons of Anarchy MC Starling chapter."

"Then you know what I know," Laurel said. "The witnesses won't talk or have vanished. Halloran will walk once he posts bail. I've got nothing to hold him on."

Lincoln picked up a newspaper with a lead story about the Arrow vigilante's latest adventures. "It seems your city has its own outlaw do-gooder: a vigilante who operates with the tacit approval of Starling PD."

"The Arrow has done a lot of good for this city," Laurel said defensively.

"Be that as it may," Lincoln continued, "vigilantism is allowed to exist _not_ because the authorities wish it, but because the community _wishes_ it to exist. I'm told the people in the Glades see the Sons of Anarchy as their protectors against the underworld's more ruthless elements. The murder at the docks has altered this equation."

Laurel was becoming annoyed with the AUSA's smugness. "Look, Mr. Potter, I have a deposition at court within the hour and a very busy day ahead of me. Is there something you want?"

"I'm glad you asked," Lincoln said and immediately handed her a file. "Consider this an early holiday present. Oh, your father said he has a few arrowheads from the Arrow in evidence lockup. If you'd like, I could bring them to the attention of the feds … maybe source the manufacturer and trace it to the buyer? Any masked vigilante, even one dressed like Errol Flynn, has something to hide. He's a public menace and he can't hide forever."

When Laurel opened the file, her eyes widened. "The _Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act_? You're building a RICO case … against SAMCRO?"

"SAMCRO, the Niners, the mob, the Bratva and every organized crime outfit connected to them from Washington State to the Mexican border," Lincoln said. "I mean to break the back of SAMCRO and, with your help, the Starling charter as well. My team is establishing a history of criminal activity with the Sons, both here and in Northern Cali. If my leads in Charming don't pan out, I will need the Halloran case as proof of the Sons' present crimes. I'll forward the necessary paperwork to your office … with a formal request for cooperation. Good day to you, Ms. Lance."

Laurel knew only a few details about the Sons' Starling MC charter. The members were mostly involved in protection rackets and small-time gun sales, but they were never involved in drugs. The killing at the docks was a sign that the rules may have changed. SAMCRO was somehow becoming a bigger player. The feud between the Russians and the Yakuza hinted at this.

Laurel began to weigh the possibility that she could finally rid the Glades of the criminal elements that preyed on it. With the RICO case, Oliver Queen's desire to save his city could continue. This fight would be by the books, with the full weight of the US attorney's office behind it

And with any luck, it wouldn't cost the lives of any more innocents.

* * *

Jax and the rest of SAMCRO left the SAMSTAR chapel – the clubhouse boardroom where members voted on important decisions. SAMSTAR had voted overwhelmingly to provide storage for the guns, security and transportation for the northern leg of the Irish – Galindo deal.

Most of the MC had already left the building when Jim, the president of SAMSTAR, clapped Jax on the shoulder. "We always back the mother charter. Still, I didn't expect that the vote in Charming was that close."

"I know," Jax said. "Some of my guys are uncomfortable with the Galindo cartel association, the drugs … but it still passed. It's a go."

"It means a lot to the guys that you came in person. The Teller name still holds weight 'round these parts," Jim said. He had served with John Teller in Vietnam and helped him to found the Starling City charter.

"So I hear," Jax said. "One of the locals told me. You might know him – Roy Harper?"

Jim nodded. "I do. He's a good kid. Had some run-ins with the law back in the day. Petty shit, purse snatching, joyrides, etc. He's on the straight and narrow I hear. Looking to be a mechanic someday." Jax told him about Roy's broken Harley and had assurances that they'd look around for vintage parts.

Tig rushed back into the clubhouse. "We got problems, Jax. Happy's been keeping tabs at the docks. Things are heating up. The Russians … the Japanese … we gotta get down there ASAP."

"The latest Irish gun order is already at the warehouse there," Jim said.

"Jesus," Jax said. "How many guys do we have to worry about?"

Tig paused. "They way Happy was saying it, I think all of Little Tokyo is there. The Russians are going to be chopped into sashimi."

Jax glanced at Jim. "SAMSTAR up for a late night ride?"

"Ask and ye shall receive, Jax." Jim grinned. In moments, dozens of full-patch SOA members rode out into the darkness.

When they arrived, Jax and the rest of his crew ducked behind some shipping containers. Around the corner, half a dozen brutish Russians in sweaters and an equal number of Yakuza enforcers in suits were engrossed in a heated argument.

Tig punched Happy in the arm. "Really? All of Little Tokyo? We could have handled these guys ourselves."

"My bad," Happy shrugged. "I saw one of the sushi gangbangers dial his phone. I thought he was calling for backup."

Jax looked at his personal army of full-patch MC members, armed with handguns and a few shotguns. "Well if it does go sideways, at least we have the numbers to win."

More shouting erupted at the docks and one of the Russians – a huge man in a crewneck sweater, rippling with muscles - pulled out a KG-9. He brandished the deadly weapon in the air.

"Are we good with the Russians in Starling?" Jax asked.

Jim nodded. "We were. Now that the Japs showed up, I'm not so sure. Igor runs the Soviets here, but I haven't heard from him in weeks."

Tig sighed. "Great. If they heard about how we handled some of his comrades down in Charming …"

"Well there's only one way to find out," Jax straddled his Harley and revved it up. "Tig, Opie and Chibs – with me. Bobby - you and Happy hang back with Jim and SAMSTAR. We don't want to spook our Russian friends. Come in shooting if things do go south."

"Got it, Jax," Bobby said.

The Russian with the KG-9 turned around and spotted Jax and his crew roaring down the laneway. The Yakuza enforcers became startled, drawing their own handguns from holsters or waistbands. They turned around and found Opie and the others with guns ready to shoot.

Jax leapt off his bike and jumped between the Russians and the Japanese. "Whoa, everyone just keep a cool head here. No one's shooting nobody!" The Russian with the KG-9 began to curse in Russian and earned a swat to the back of his head from another Russian. This one was balding, rail-thin in an immaculate Hugo Boss suit and looked like a villain from a Sean Connery-era James Bond movie. The two Russians both began to squabble in staccato bursts of Russian expletives.

Jax glanced at Chibs, puzzled at this development.

"Which one is Igor?" Jax demanded.

"I am," the rail-thin Russian said. "You are SAMSTAR?"

"SAMCRO, the MC's mother charter. I'm Jax Teller."

Igor barked a brief order and the rest of his Russian crew lowered their guns. The Japanese were still antsy but Chibs and Tig managed to convince them that no one was going to shoot.

The Russian boss holstered his own gun. "I'm Igor Zakharov. I run the port. For many years. The president of SAMSTAR knows this. Jim is a good man. Him I trust. Does he trust you?" Jax nodded.

Oblivious to the tense atmosphere, Igor pulled out a flask from his blazer. "Vodka from the motherland. Drink some."

Jax took the offered flask and drank. He coughed at the sharp burning in his throat, earning him a few snickers from the Russians and some of his own guys.

Igor smiled. "Takes some getting used to. Forgive my associate, Timer. People call him 'Tank' but I should call him 'Idiot'" Just to underline the point, he marched to Tank's face and shouted at him: "Idiot!"

Opie nudged Tig in the arm. "Russians that we're cool with? I can live with that."

Tig shivered awkwardly. "I need to take a piss. Anyone else feel that way?"

Igor nodded towards the Yakuza gangster with spiky hair and a loud purple _Miami Vice_ -type suit. "Hideki is the _shateigashira_ : a lieutenant for the Yamamoto clan here. He owns all the high-end massage parlours from here to Portland. The _oyabun_ – the family boss – is in Kyoto for business. I called this meeting to iron out our recent differences, but things were … lost in translation, shall we say."

Jax turned towards Hideki. "You don't know me, I get that. But you know SAMSTAR. I'm the Vice President of the Sons' mother charter in Charming. We have no beef with you guys."

"Maybe," Hideki said in accented English. "But we have a beef with the Russians. Viktor Putlova promised us control of the port and we now find his promise means nothing. My people think your killing Putlova also killed his promise."

"Putlova mentioned nothing of this to me!" Igor protested. The Russians' shocked expressions confirmed this.

The name Putlova – the Russian gangster who Jax and SAMCRO gunned down in cold blood after Opie and Lyla's wedding - continued to cause complications for the MC.

"Look," Jax said, turning to Igor. "You, me and Hideki need to sort out boundaries here. Starling PD is turning the screws on SAMSTAR with the Halloran case, looking for any weakness to exploit. Putlova's been playing you. And the Yakuza."

Chibs turned to Hideki, speaking quietly. "You're new to this turf, mate. Both SAMSTAR and Mr. Zakharov have operated in Starling City for years. So, you must understand that there's gotta be some give and take from your end. When does your boss come back from Japan?"

"The _oyabun_ returns to Starling in two days," Hideki said. "He will want guaranteed access to port, if outright control is not possible."

Jax looked at the warehouse. The security of the Irish guns was paramount, whatever happened. "We should work out the details soon. Talk to your people. We'll have to take it to the table for a vote, but I think we can –"

Without warning, a razor-tipped arrow impaled the arm of Tank. One of the Yakuza _kyodai_ squealed as an arrow shot through his calf. Half a dozen flash-bombs peppered the group, enveloping them with smoke.

Tig coughed. "The hooded outlaw?" He thought he could hear Happy or Bobby in the distance, yelling over the confusion and smoke.

Jax, the Russians and the Japanese looked up towards the warehouse roof. They could see only one man in a hood.

"Ya gotta be kidding me!" Jax exclaimed. "I take it you're not down with 'The Hood'?" He smirked at Igor.

Everyone scrambled for cover behind shipping containers, iron barrels and abandoned cars as more arrows and flash-bombs landed nearby.

" _Igor Zakharov_ ," the hooded vigilante intoned. " _You have_ _failed_ _this city_!"

"I want him dead!" Igor exclaimed. He grabbed the KG-9 that Tank dropped and opened fire on the warehouse roof.

Both the Russians and Yakuza pulled out their guns and automatics, raining bullets upon the rooftop. A big explosion erupted, catching everyone by surprise. It consumed the alleyway to their rear with a tremendous fireball. Happy and SAMSTAR were now cut off from Jax's crew. There would be no reinforcements.

"Mother of God, we're sitting ducks here!" Chibs exclaimed. "Stuck between the Soviets, the Japs … and this Arrow freak!"

"I guess we're in this fight now, eh, Jax?" Tig said, flicking the safety off his gun. "With no backup. Cops are bound to hear this shit-storm. And wouldn't you know it ... I still need to take a piss. Badly."

"Keep your head and bladder in the game, Trager," Jax barked. "Igor and the Japanese crews are on our side. For now."

"And what about 'The Arrow'?" Opie said.

Jax glowered at the shadowed figure on the warehouse. Too much was at stake, not just for SAMCRO but for his plans to get out of the life. This was the arrangement he had with Clay: his support at the table in exchange for a clean exit from the MC.

He was going to raise his young family with Tara, away from the violence. Away from Charming. This was all that mattered to him. And he wasn't about to let some punk vigilante tear apart his plans and jeopardize Abel and Thomas' future.

"I want this Robin Hood prick's head impaled on the Reaper pole." Jax fired his Glock at the warehouse roof. With all the firepower directed at the roof, there was no way anyone could survive the hellfire.

The Arrow was just one man. And men still bleed.

 **To be continued …**

[Author's note: This may become an episodic story but for the moment, it may be just a series of short stories blending the world of SAMCRO and the Arrow universe.]


	3. Episode 3

Story 3: **"Smile, and Be A Villain"**

With the fireball raging in the laneway behind them, the Sons were trapped. The Russians and the Yakuza were pouring bullets on the warehouse rooftop and for a moment, Jax had a hideous premonition that the Arrow would skewer his throat with an arrow tonight.

"Ceasefire!" Igor barked. "Ceasefire!"

"What, are you crazy?" Opie said, as he unloaded another round from his Glock at the mystery assailant above. "That Arrow prick could have half a dozen guys up there waiting to turn us into human kebobs!"

Igor held up his hand to silence any argument. "The arrow attacks are following a pattern." He pointed to the ground before them. "Watch closely."

One arrow pierced the tire of an abandoned car. Three seconds later, another arrow shaft skittered harmlessly on the pavement. Another three seconds - and another arrow impaled a wooden crate to their right.

Igor scowled. "He is firing arrows using some sort of pre-programmed contraption. He is long gone." Jax watched as arrows were fired at three or four-second intervals. As long as they stayed six feet from the preset range, they would be safe.

"Chibs - you go around back. Meet up with Happy and take some of the SAMSTAR guys to the roof. If he's there, take this Arrow son of a bitch out - permanently."

"You got it, Jackie boy," Chibs said.

A surge of panic rippled through Jax as he looked at the warehouse. "The guns! We've got to clear out the Irish guns. Opie, you and Tig need to secure them."

"Oh, sweet Buddha," Tig muttered. "My bladder's about to explode here!"

They heard a scream from the Japanese gangster with an arrow in his calf. His friends had managed to extract the arrow shaft. Yakuza lieutenant Hideki looked at the wound and winced. "This port is filthy. The wound could already be infected."

"Isn't piss supposed to be sterile?" Opie said. Without another word, Tig unzipped his pants and proceeded to relive himself on the _kyodai_ 's wound - to the horror of the well-dressed Yakuza. A full minute later, Tig smiled at the Japanese crew. "Hey, I just saved your little buddy Akira's life!" Opie and Tig ran into the warehouse along with a few Russians to clear out the Irish guns before the SCPD arrived.

"I can buy you maybe 10-15 minutes," Igor said. "I have people within the Glades precinct, both civilians and uniforms. Unfortunately, there is also the special anti-gang task force that will most certainly come here." He glared at the Yakuza. "They will expect Russians, but our Asian friends should not be here when they do arrive."

Jax looked at Hideki. "Dude, you and your crew need to disappear. You think your guy's okay to move?"

Hideki nodded. "He will be fine, embarrassment aside." He gave Jax a business card. "You can reach me at _The Smiling Geisha_ , Starling City's finest holistic spa." Hideki and his crew carried their injured friend into a black Escalade and soon zoomed away.

"Tank isn't doing so good," Igor said. "He's losing blood. There will be questions if the police find him."

"I got this," Jax said. He didn't know how he was going to get Tank out of here, but he would find a way.

Happy and Chibs were already atop the warehouse roof, where three crossbows were stationed on tripods. Something that looked like a tennis ball launcher was also pointed below. "The Arrow himself must have fired the arrows that took down the Soviet and the Jap," Happy said, "but the rest ... he was firing crossbows at us by remote control. The arrows ... and the flash-bombs."

"That slippery weasel," Chibs said.

In moments, Bobby and the rest of SAMSTAR arrived at the scene with an orange school bus.

"Jim, it looks like we'll be making the gun run ahead of schedule," Jax said, surprised at the sight of the bus.

"We don't have much choice at this point," Jim said. He opened the rear door of the school bus. Beneath the bus seats were hidden empty compartments: ideal for smuggling illegal weapons and ammunition.

"Tig, Happy - get this bus south. Pronto," Jax said. "SAMSTAR will escort you to the Northern Cali border. Rogue River can watch your back till Oaktown. Chibs, go back to the clubhouse with Jim. See if you can touch base with Clay. He needs to be ready for the delivery. The guns are our first priority. Romeo will be expecting to see this shipment intact and ready for his Mexican war. We'll meet up when the heat dies down. "

"Consider it done, V.P.," Happy said. SAMSTAR loaded the bus with crates full of ammo, SIGs, KG-9s and Glocks. Tig jumped into the driver's seat. Half a dozen Harleys from SAMSTAR lined up behind the bus. Jim, Chibs and the rest of the Starling MC roared away on their Harleys in the opposite direction.

"Looks like you and me got a road trip, Hap," Tig said as he gripped the steering wheels. "' _The wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round, round and round_ ' ..." Happy chuckled, but he silently hoped that Tig wouldn't sing like this for the entire trip. They were a long way from Charming.

When SAMSTAR and the school bus had left, only Jax, Bobby and Opie were left with the now-unconscious Tank. Igor and the Russians had already gone to the port's gated entrance to stall the SCPD.

"We can't take him back to the SAMSTAR clubhouse, the cops are gonna stop there for sure," Bobby said.

"Shit," Opie said. "We need someplace to be scarce ... at least until the heat at the port blows over. And Jim's guys have already split with our rides."

"There's an old Volvo on the other side," Bobby said, pointing to the rear of another warehouse. "The Russians said it's still working."

"Let's hope so," Jax said, as they rolled Tank onto a canvas tarp. It would have to be a makeshift stretcher. "Otherwise, we'll be meeting this Captain Lance sooner than we think."

Outside the port gates, Quentin looked at the plumes of smoke in the distance. He knew it was gang-related, but the Russian who ran the port was clearly stalling for time.

"Unlock the damn gates," Quentin said.

"You will need a warrant first," Igor smiled as pleasantly as possible.

Quentin glanced at Igor Zakharov's crew, some of whom had cuts or bruises on their faces and hands. The flames still licked the walls of the distant warehouse. "Your boys got into a bit of a mix-up tonight? Who was it - the Chinatown triads, Los Diablos, Blood's old crew? Some sort of Glades turf war? I know SAMSTAR has to be involved."

"My lawyer would be only too happy to answer all the questions you have," Igor smiled behind the chained gates.

Quentin fumed. He could do nothing. The local SCPD precinct was first on the scene - and deeply in Igor's well-monied pockets. He could expect little help from them. He had probable cause to search the portlands, but Igor was smart. If Quentin were to force his way into the port, the Russians would use the law to throw out the search as unlawful. Any useful evidence would be scrubbed away or tossed into the harbour before he ever set foot on the docks.

"Okay, Igor, we'll do things your way," Quentin said. "The warrant's on its way and you'll have to open the gates anyway. I'll be taking statements from you and your whole crew. You can forget about getting any sleep."

I can forget about an early night too, he grumbled.

* * *

Roy walked down the street from the variety store with a bag of snacks and energy drinks. Unless Ollie called him to suit up for another late mission, he expected this night to be a quiet one. He had difficulty sleeping, ever since he had met Jax Teller, V.P. of SAMCRO. The son of legendary Sons founder John Teller, Jax had arrived in Starling City to show support for the local charter SAMSTAR. Captain Lance's anti-gang task force was leaning hard on SAMSTAR after the portlands murder. Somehow this had caught the mother charter's attention and prompted Jax and his crew to ride up from Northern Cali.

In the distance, he heard the squealing of tires. A beat-up blue Volvo screeched down the road, then promptly stalled two blocks away from him. Far away, somewhere near the docks, a string of sirens wailed. Roy's instincts told him trouble was nearby. He walked closer to the Volvo.

"Shit!" Bobby cursed. He stepped out of the Volvo's driver seat. He coughed as smoke bellowed from the car's engine. "This car is toast."

Opie stepped out of the car. When the engine smoke cleared, he was looking directly at someone in a red hoodie. The stranger had eyed the backseat and spotted the injured Russian ... and Jax.

"I-I didn't see anything," Roy said. Opie pulled out his Glock from his waistband.

"And you won't be sayin' nothing - or you're a dead man," Opie said, ready to put a bullet into Roy's forehead. He was surprised when Jax pushed his arm down.

"Chill, Opie. This is Roy. He's a friend of the club," Jax said with authority. He looked at Roy, his eyes pleading with him to cooperate.

"Seriously?" Bobby said. He and Opie struggled to support the injured Russian on their shoulders.

"He's from the Glades," Jax said. "One of the locals. SAMSTAR's helping him find parts for his old Harley." This seemed to convince both Bobby and Opie that Roy wasn't an immediate threat.

Sirens wailed. On the horizon, their flashing lights seemed to be coming closer. "We've got an injured buddy of ours," Jax said, "but we can't exactly take him to the hospital."

"Understood," Roy said. Crap, he thought, I'm knee-deep in this now. If the cops come across Jax and his friends, it would be bad news for both SAMCRO and the local charter.

"We need to lay low ... at least until the heat on the street cools down," Bobby said.

Jax pulled Roy aside. "I know you've left the life behind," he said. "I'm not here to turn you to the dark side. Far from it. All we need is a place for our buddy here to recover from his wounds, away from curious eyes. You're from here - if you know of any place we can hide out, at least for tonight ..." Jax did not seem like a hardened criminal, in spite of all the evidence to the contrary, and Roy could sense the desperation in the man's voice. His friend Sin had told him that Jax had a family.

 _He has a new fiancee. And two young sons that he loves very much. That's all he wants. To keep his family whole._

The vigilante in him, Arsenal, knew that he should give Ollie the heads-up, or maybe give Felicity or Diggle a call first. SAMCRO was a criminal organization who sold guns to other criminals. But the Glades hoodlum that Roy used to be had an innate mistrust of all authority: cops, politicians, anyone who thought their moralizing and snobbery could ever change the Glades. He would never call the police.

 _In the Glades, we look out for ourselves._

"I know a place," Roy said, immediately regretting that the words came out of his mouth. When Ollie first donned the persona of the Hood two years ago, he had several safe houses and hideouts scattered throughout the Glades. When Roy joined Ollie's team of masked vigilantes, Ollie told him about a few of these safe houses.

"How far is it?" Opie said. Roy could not take back the offer. It was made now, he had made it. It felt wrong to him, and weeks later, Roy would realize that Ollie's narrow view of right and wrong would see it as a betrayal regardless of the circumstances. But Roy wasn't thinking about it in moral terms. In this moment, Jax was in a jam, the cops were on his tail and the Sons - friends and protectors of the Glades - were in trouble and in need of help.

"Not far," Roy said. One of Ollie's older safe houses - little more than a place to change clothes and re-equip - was in an abandoned textiles factory that belonged to Queen Int'l Exporting, a now-defunct subsidiary of the Queen empire. The Glades were littered with dozens of these shuttered and half-demolished factories.

Twenty minutes later, Roy approached the old textiles factory. Jax and Opie were behind him, grunting as they carried the injured Russian in the canvas tarp stretcher. Lagging behind them was Bobby, who huffed in exhaustion.

"I used to stash my stolen goods here before I fenced them," Roy lied. "It's been awhile. Lemme check it out first." He unlocked the rusted door and went inside. The sirens were still wailing but they sounded more distant now.

"Can you trust this Roy dude?" Opie said. "It would kinda suck if he's in there calling the cops. Ratting us out."

"He's a friend of the club," Jax said. "He brought us this far, he's not gonna burn us."

The door opened. "All clear, guys." He turned on the factory lights, which hummed and flickered. Several windows above had been smashed, after years of neglect. Empty crates and scrap lumber lined the walls. Pigeons cooed in the rafters above. It was sparsely furnished, with only a table, a few chairs, two cupboards and a bathroom.

"You'll find some first-aid kits in the cupboard," Roy said. Opie checked the cupboard and came back with rubbing alcohol, gauze bandages, a needle, Tylenol and medical thread for stitches. He wondered why it was stocked full of new medical supplies, but with his mind focused on staying alive and off the SCPD radar, Opie let the suspicion fade from his mind.

Roy soaked a cloth with the alcohol and once he pressed it against Tank's wound in the forearm, the large Russian bellowed in agony. He studied the wound.

"What happened to him?" Roy asked. "It looks like someone stabbed him."

"We were at the port for club business," Jax said. "Things went south when that hooded vigilante - he calls himself the Arrow - attacked us and our Russian pals." He chose not to volunteer that the Yakuza were also at the port. "Seriously crazy shit. Tank over here got an arrow in the arm for his troubles."

"That sucks," Roy said as he began to stitch the Russian's gaping wound. _Ollie had attacked them at the port!_

"What do you know about this Arrow?" Opie asked Roy. "From what I hear, he rolls with his own crew of masked outlaws."

"I don't know much," Roy said, hoping that they wouldn't pick up on his fear in his eyes. "I can't believe half of what I see in the news about them. It's kind of ridiculous that he'd go running around with bows and arrows when all the criminals have guns."

"The Arrow managed to get the drop on us and the Russians at the port," Jax countered. "We had him out-manned and outgunned and he still pinned us down. He attacked us swiftly. He had a plan and executed it. Without remorse. And he vanished into thin air."

Jax studied the rings on his hand. He was the prince of SAMCRO and this vigilante had threatened his MC. "This Arrow is no weekend amateur - he's a professional with a unique skill-set. Probably ex-military or Special Ops. He's made an enemy of SAMCRO tonight. We'll be prepared for him next time."

Bobby hovered over Roy's shoulder, his breath reeking of rum and cigarettes. "You've done us a solid here, my friend. Really stepped up. If Jax says you're good with him, you're good with me. And with SAMCRO. Thank you for this, bro." He sat at the table and took out his flask for another sip of rum. Near the door, Opie sat on a crate. He lit up a cigarette and took a drag. It was going to be a long night.

"Thank you, Roy," Jax said as he settled into one of the chairs, relieved that he could take a breather after a long night. "Your help means a lot to me, and to the club." The events at the port had drained him of energy. In minutes, the Vice President of SAMCRO had fallen asleep.

Tank, the Russian, was already unconscious due to painkillers. Roy began to wrap Tank's forearm with more gauze bandages.

"You're welcome, Jax." Roy said. He didn't know how he had managed to stitch the Russian's wound with steady hands. He was anything but calm.

Whether it was by choice or by fate, he could not shake the looming sense that he was now at the devil's beck.

In this room.

With Jax Teller.

The Arrow had complicated the club's plans, whatever they may be, and injured a friend of the club. According the codes of the street (and the traditions of SAMCRO), such an offence demanded retaliation. There could be no appeal to mercy - because the Sons of Anarchy had none.

He hoped that Ollie had long forgotten about this safe house.

Because if he did show up tonight, Roy was certain that Jax would shoot Oliver Queen in the throat.

 **To be continued ...**


	4. Episode 4

**_"Friendship and Family"_**

Oliver Queen, the vigilante known as the Arrow, took off his hood and combat gloves and left them on the counter. He was in the Arrowcave, the hidden lair of Starling City's infamous hero. Things did not go as planned at the port.

He was still adjusting to the increasing independence of members of his team. Laurel, Roy and the rest had stepped up when the criminal Brick and his crew terrorized the Glades.

 _When the world thought I was dead_ , he thought. _They took up my mission – and kept it alive when it would have been simpler to let it die._

Felicity Smoak, the team's de facto technical and operational support, could sense that Ollie had a rough night in the field. She knew there was still distance between them – and not only because Ollie was still adjusting to surviving his harrowing duel with the messianic warlord Ra's Al Ghul.

She was developing a relationship with Ray Palmer, the genius new CEO of Palmer Tech (successor to the former Queen Consolidated) – a relationship that further soured an already tense friendship. It took great effort for her to block out all the emotional refuse that had been welling up between them since his return.

She decided to revert to what she had called her "default setting": staying on task and being on top of the mission. Cool and professional.

 _Even though my heart is crumbling apart, one Lego brick at time_ , she mused. _That is, if it were made of red Legos_.

"The police radios said there was a huge firefight at the port," Felicity said. "This was our plan: to force Zakharov's hand, provoke a gangland feud and get the SCPD to apprehend them."

"It was," Ollie grunted. When he took off his tunic, a sliver of wood was embedded in his left shoulder. It was a minor injury but it was painful. Felicity immediately ran for the first aid kit. She carefully removed the fragment and disinfected the wound.

Ollie grimaced as Felicity cleansed the wound. "The port was full of Harleys. I didn't expect that all of SAMSTAR would be there, with guns blazing. I was sure that the Russians and the Yakuza were going to gut each other. The bikers stopped them for some reason."

Diggle, Ollie's trusted friend and team member, pulled up a satellite feed of the port on the widescreen computer monitor. "The Russians don't have cameras there for obvious reasons – so it's a good thing we have eyes in the sky of our own." The satellite images would take awhile to render.

"Igor Zakharov is a long-time player in the Glades' underworld," Ollie continued. "Everything illegal or black market passes under his nose at the port: guns, drugs, pirated goods, stolen merchandise …"

Zakharov controlled the port. The local SCPD precinct was allegedly on his payroll and he held influence with the port authority. Many criminal elements used the port and the Russian crew in the port found this to be a profitable relationship. It had always been this way, long before Ollie returned from the island.

Sorting out criminal allegiances could be a confusing exercise, so Ollie divided the criminal underworld in the Glades into two camps: the home team and the away team.

The "home" team included all the criminals that already existed in the Glades, some for decades. They were part of the Glades, built into the fabric of its society. This included the Russians, the Mafia, the old Chinatown triads, the local Sons of Anarchy MC and the scattered groups of small-time thieves and drug dealers who had preyed on the poor and disenfranchised. They were the old guard and his strategy here was always containment.

The "away" team included the new players that recently moved into Starling City. These included Los Diablos (a Mexican crew) and newer gangs from Vietnam, Japan and Shanghai. One group that worried Ollie was the influential Yamamoto family, a powerful Oregon-based Yakuza clan that had entered Starling City's drugs and prostitution trade about two months ago. Ollie hoped he could incite old rivalries with his attack, hoping that the Russians and the Japanese would turn their guns on each other. He was stunned that SAMSTAR had intervened to keep the peace, just when it appeared that a gangland confrontation was imminent.

"Outlaw bikers," Diggle said. "I think they don't like it when the status quo is disrupted. It hurts their bottom line."

"That's what I think," Ollie said. "They want the port to remain calm and quiet. Cops complicate the situation."

"Then maybe you might have achieved what you wanted," Felicity said. "The Glades cops are dirty – but it was Captain Lance's special anti-gang task force that arrived at the port. They're awaiting a warrant from the D.A.'s office to search the port lands. And before you ask, I heard the captain ask Laurel for one about 10 minutes ago on his phone."

"What the –" Diggle said.

"I know, I know." Felicity said. "Eavesdropping on people's smartphones isn't exactly legal, but –"

"No, I'm talking about this," Diggle interrupted, pointing at the computer screen.

Ollie studied the photos, still wincing because of his shoulder wound. "It's definitely the Sons of Anarchy. SAMSTAR's there. But look. See this group over there? Look at their cuts."

Diggle peered at the bikers' leather vests. "It says: CALIFORNIA." In another screen capture, the patches on the cuts said: REDWOOD ORIGINAL. "SAMSTAR's got some backup from the land of palm trees and movie stars?"

"Worse," Ollie said. "This is the mother charter of the entire MC. They're taking whatever is happening at the port seriously. It can't help that the anti-gang task force has been tightening the screws on SAMSTAR since the port murder."

Diggle scrolled through the high-resolution satellite images and stopped at one image. "No way. Did that patch just say 'V. PRESIDENT'?" During Ollie's absence, Laurel had provided the team with discreet intel about the major players in the Glades' underworld. Diggle and Felicity were still getting up to speed about the underworld's power brokers and the intricacies of criminal relationships.

"This isn't good," Ollie said. Over the past two years he had spent many hours, for weeks at a time, studying his enemies. It was a necessity in order to save his city. SAMSTAR was a mid-level criminal organization, but it was several rungs below the triads, the Mafia or the Russians in the pecking order. He always wondered how they managed to survive around much bigger players. Then it hit him.

SAMSTAR's bread and butter business was guns. It always was. Handguns, shotguns, rifles – in the Glades, the MC was the Costco of the criminal small arms trade. This was why the club survived. Ollie believed that the killing of a security guard at the port a few weeks ago, accidental or not, was a sign that something had changed. The gun trade had to be related to it.

Ollie played a satellite video feed of the Russian-Yakuza confrontation over and over again. The image of one blond-haired SAMCRO member, plunging himself in between an explosive gangland argument, was seared into his memory.

"This man," Ollie said solemnly, "is Jax Teller: Vice President of the Sons' mother charter, based in Charming. Now that he's here – nothing will happen with SAMSTAR or the port without his knowledge or approval. He'll be calling the shots in the MC as long as he's in town. We get him – we can scuttle whatever arrangement he's got going at the port. Cut the snake's head off before he strikes."

"Laurel's files say SAMCRO's hard to pin down," Diggle said. "They never rat on another member, never go down without a fight. I'd be fine if those outlaws and gangsters cancel themselves out. But is it about turf? Guns? Or something else? We need more info before we go to war with SAMCRO."

"Agreed," Felicity said. "SCPD's got a full-patch member in lockup: Mickey Halloran. He was there when the guard was killed. I'll see if we can get more info from our canary in the D.A.'s office."

In a few minutes, Ollie had changed into jeans, brown oxford shoes and a cable-knit long sleeve shirt. He looked more like Oliver Queen, the trust fund scion of the Queen family, than a vigilante.

"Wait, where are you going?" Diggle asked. "You just got back from the field …"

"Arsenal was following a lead on a heroin smuggling racket in the skid row district," Ollie said. "He knows the Glades better than anyone. I need to follow-up with him. He might know more about what SAMSTAR is up to."

Felicity beamed at the idea of Ollie referring to Roy by his official team codename. She wanted to believe that things could be same again within the team, even though there were times every member of the team had their own ideas on how to make things right again.

She did not want to admit that Oliver's "death" and absence had changed it forever. The team had to go on and function without him. His return only highlighted the fractures in the group that could become deeper fissures.

 _How could it not change them?_ Felicity thought

When Ollie left, Diggle turned to Felicity. "Speaking of M.I.A., where's Laurel? I haven't seen her since we tangled with the Los Diablos crew last week."

"I'm sure it's just work-related," Felicity said. "You know, the work that doesn't involve masks and bodysuits." She knew the Starling D.A.'s office was under intense pressure to arrest someone for the slaying at the port. That political heat landed at Laurel's desk. But knowing what she now knew about the Sons of Anarchy, Felicity sensed it wasn't going to be easy to make a long-serving, full-patch member like Halloran talk.

"The Reaper tells no secrets," Felicity said under her breath.

* * *

Tara Knowles, neonatal surgeon at St. Thomas Hospital in Charming, took off the white coat in her office and settled on the couch. It was a slow day at work, one of the rare ones she had. She had attended a morning meeting of the pediatric ward's doctors, had lunch with her boys and spent the afternoon checking on two patients she had operated on this week.

One, a two-year-old girl, had recovered from heart surgery two days ago and the prognosis was good. The other, a four-year-old boy who insisted on calling her Mommy during his visit, had suffered a fractured ulna during a freak boating accident and eerily reminded her of her own son. She was grateful that it would be left to other doctors to check on the boy after today.

It took every ounce of professionalism within her to not think about both Thomas and Abel. Having read John Teller's letters to Maureen Ashby – expressing his doubts about the club's criminal direction and his desire to get the MC out of guns for good – she couldn't help but think that these were timely warnings to her and that some higher power wanted her to read them.

 _I have to get out of this town, away from Gemma, away from Clay and from the MC._ To protect Thomas and Abel, she would do whatever it takes.

There was a knock on the door. Margaret Murphy, the redheaded hospital administrator, peeked through the door.

"Are you busy? I could come back …"

"Oh not at all," Tara smiled. "Come in." Margaret, who Gemma derisively referred to as 'Red', had become one of her trusted confidants over the past three years and always had her interests at heart – both personally and professionally. She was also one of the strongest supporters of her decision to move her family out of Charming and away from its sordid criminal baggage.

"There are quite a few hospitals and HMO's ramping up their recruiting," Margaret suggested, "especially in the northwest."

"I know," Tara said. "Jane over in Oncology forwarded me last week's _St. Thomas E-Bulletin_. 'Opportunities that Count' or something like that."

Margaret smiled brightly. "I have to confess I put her up to it. Look, I know you're counting on Jax to help you make your exit from Charming … but he can't do much in terms of your professional needs. That's where I can help." She pulled out several glossy brochures and official-looking notices.

Tara skimmed through them. "Starling City Medical Professionals' Association, Glades Memorial, Starling General …" She looked puzzled. "Wouldn't I be jumping from the frying pan and into the fire here? Starling City is rife with crime. It's all over the news: the Undertaking, that conspiracy between Sebastian Blood and that masked mercenary Deathstroke, armies of prison escapees bent on chaos …"

"That may have been Starling's past," Margaret interjected, "but this is Starling's future. They are looking to rebuild. Every crisis leads to opportunity. The city's flowing with reconstruction funding. Both Starling General and Glades Memorial are practically begging for doctors, with the brain-drain that's been going on. Neonatal specialists would be in high demand. Did you know the city's crime rate has actually dropped over the past two and a half years? Murders and assaults have been down 30 percent since 2011. Condo construction has gone up 50 percent this year alone. They even have their own mysteriously masked vigilantes who patrol the city streets and keep the scumbags at bay!"

"Wow, you're really keen on this, aren't you?" Tara said, flipping through the brochures and flyers. "The local college has a renowned medical school too and tech guru Ray Palmer is donating millions to modernize the hospitals and expand the Glades children's hospital. I would be a fool not to at least consider it!"

"My thoughts exactly," Margaret said. "There will be a hiring fair in Starling this weekend. With Mr. Palmer's funding and your skills, you could help Starling's less fortunate and make a difference."

"Noted," Tara said, thrilled at the opportunities to pursue her profession elsewhere. "Is this your way of telling me to seize the day?"

The door opened suddenly. "Seize the day about what?" It was Gemma Teller-Morrow, the wife of SAMCRO president Clay Morrow. And Jax Teller's meddling mother.

"Polite people knock first, Gemma," Margaret said coolly. She was surprised she didn't hear Gemma's stiletto-heeled boots clicking and clacking down the hallway.

"I ain't talking to you Red," Gemma said. "Seize the day about what?" She glanced at the shiny brochures and flyers on Tara's lap. Before Tara could pack them away, Gemma picked up one of them.

Gemma read through one flyer. " _Starling General: A Great Place to Work. Starling City: A Great Place to Live_. As if. That place makes Charming look like a goddamned paradise! Mayors get killed every year in Starling. Even the cops are on the take."

"That's going to change," Margaret said. "There's an anti-gang task force cleaning up the city. And with the Arrow helping them –"

Gemma snorted. "Hah! The leather-clad Robin Hood wannabe? This ain't some Hollywood movie, sweetheart. What's a bow and arrow gonna do against hardened criminals with Glocks and .38's? Unless he's huntin' deer, the Arrow is less than useless when shit _does_ happen."

She folded her arms across her chest with supreme confidence. "Trust me, Tara, you're safer in Charming. With a gun in your purse. Don't let this holier-than-thou ginger steer you into trouble."

"It's Tara's choice to make, Gemma," Margaret said. "And there's nothing you – or SAMCRO – can do to change that." She walked briskly out of the office.

"Tara –" Gemma began.

"She's right," Tara said impatiently. "It's on me to look out for my career and my sons. I need to weigh my options. It's what responsible mothers do, Gemma. Jax can't help me in this regard. I can't be the resident outlaw biker medic forever. Look, the boys are still at daycare. They must be hungry for dinner. Help me take them home?"

Tara had invoked the boys' welfare, which prompted Gemma to drop the issue. Family was everything. Tara's medical career was also important to her, despite the ever-present risk that it would lead her away from Charming.

 _And she'll take the boys away from me_ , she thought. It was a delicate issue between them and, for the moment, Jax was onside with Tara's career goals.

Gemma had come to the hospital to look for John's letters, which she suspected Tara must have kept in her office. _Another problem for another time._ What was important now was family.

With the boys in tow, Gemma and Tara exited the hospital. SAMCRO prospect Phil was waiting at the doors and drinking a can of soda, wistfully pining away for a pretty blonde nurse he had met in the hospital cafeteria a few days ago. Nothing came of it, but he hoped that one day he'd muster up enough courage to speak to her. The nurse was chatting away with a colleague in the parking lot.

"You don't want to go there, Phil," Gemma said, with Tara nearby. "Chicks in the medical profession are lifers. Career is everything to them. She'll break your heart – and uproot your family."

"Yes, ma'am … I mean, Gemma," Phil said. He looked like Gemma had poured acid on his dreams. Despite this, Jax had tasked him with keeping Tara safe. If he was ever going to make patch, he would do his duty to protect her and her sons. He swallowed his bruised pride, took Abel by the hand and led him to Gemma's SUV.

Tara lagged behind. She cradled her son Thomas closer in her arms, glaring angrily at Gemma. At this moment, she was determined to visit Starling City – for her career, for her family and for their future happiness.

 _And to hell with Gemma's petty antics and this small-minded town_ , she thought.

 **To be continued ...**


	5. Episode 5

_**"Conscience Does Make Cowards of Us"**_

[Rating: In the world of SAMCRO, there is always the chance of mature subject matter and coarse language. With the Arrowverse, this means it's not as common as it is on FX. (Hello, crossover!)]

Michael "Mickey" Halloran was a patched member of SAMSTAR. With his stringy grey hair and unkempt beard, he looked like an aging 1970s-era rocker. A founding members of the Starling charter, he served two tours of duty during the Vietnam War and helped SAMCRO founder John Teller to set up a brother charter in Starling City in '71. The MC was his life and he wouldn't have it any other way.

He sat across the table from the Starling ADA in the interrogation room, confident that he'd be out on bail within the hour. Both the cops and the ADA tried in vain to pry the truth from him about the port lands shooting. He was no rat and was having none of it.

"The SCPD is leaning hard on your club, Mr. Halloran," Laurel said, skimming through her notepad. "SAMSTAR's been active at the port for years. We know your MC's association with the Russians. We also know that you were at the meeting between Igor Zakharov's crew and one of the Asian gangs that operate in the Glades. Things went south and a security guard was killed. Tell us who pulled the trigger and we can keep your MC clear of the murder."

Mickey laughed. "Sweetheart, I've survived Khe Sanh and the Tet Offensive in 'Nam. I'm not easily spooked, by cops or lawyers. I don't know nothin' and won't say nothin'." He leaned in closer. "You _got_ nothin'."

An hour later, Mickey and the MC's lawyer walked out of the SCPD downtown precinct and drove away in a late-model sedan with an escort of SAMSTAR bikes. Laurel knew that he'd be at the MC's Glades clubhouse within hours, celebrating his release.

She was about to leave the precinct when someone tugged at her shoulder.

"A word, counsellor?" It was her father, Captain Quentin Lance. He ushered her into his office.

"Halloran walked," Laurel said. "He didn't give up the shooter. Either he's protecting the club member who did it, or he just doesn't want to rat out the MC's business partners" And by 'business', she meant the gangs who used the port to house and transport their illicit goods.

"That's probably a dead end," Quentin acknowledged, "but our mutual puppetmaster friend in Charming just sent me a PDF file that could help us put pressure on the MC."

"Lincoln Potter?" Laurel said.

"Yeah, I know he's a bit odd, but the intel he provided could be helpful." Quentin showed Laurel a photo print-out of a gas station security video capture, date-stamped about month ago. It showed a blurry figure lying spread-eagled on the pavement. There was a pool of blood near his head. She couldn't make out the faces, but she recognized the cuts of either SAMSTAR or SAMCRO. And someone with a mohawk buzzed across a shaved bald head, with two lightning tattoos etched on either side.

"Now where have I seen that ink before?" Laurel said, flipping through one of her files. She had mugshots of all current members of SAMSTAR and SAMCRO. "Juice, from the Redwood Original charter?"

"Juan Carlos Ortiz, to be exact," Quentin said. "He's a newer member and their so-called tech expert. There was an unsolved murder of a Mexican gangbanger last month, on the Northern Cali - Oregon border. The evidence pointed to a local beef between gangs, but it turns out it may have been an orchestrated hit with SAMCRO's blessing. He could be our leverage against SAMSTAR and the mother charter too!"

Laurel studied the Juice mugshot. His face was all defiance and swagger - a new member trying to prove his toughness to the world.

"I'll look into it," Laurel said. Her father was putting on a flak vest and gun holster. "Where are you going?"

"Now that Jax Teller and SAMCRO's in town," Quentin said, "it's time the SCPD - at least the clean ones here - lets them know that this isn't Charming and it ain't business as usual for the MC."

On the border between the glass-and-steel towers of the downtown core and the abandoned city blocks of the Glades, an entourage of SAMSTAR Harleys escorted Mickey Halloran's sedan. He was free and the club wanted to show support for a fellow member. With Jax and the others laying low, it was left to Chibs to ride out with them this morning to represent SAMCRO.

In moments, two black armoured trucks blocked the main road into the Glades and half a dozen SCPD squad cars pulled up with sirens blaring. Dozens of uniforms lined both sides of the road.

"What is this shite?" Chibs cursed. He was at the head of the Harley entourage with SAMSTAR president Jim.

Quentin stepped out of one of the trucks, in a full SCPD flak jacket and bearing a shotgun. Two heavily-armed ETF officers flanked him.

"Welcome to Starling City, boys! If you've seen the news, then you already know who I am. Captain Quentin Lance, head of the SCPD anti-gang task force."

"What do you want, Captain?" Jim said. "We all have helmets and we're riding within the speed limit." A few of his members chuckled.

"I'm glad you asked, Jim," Quentin said. "Some of you I'm already familiar with, some are new to me. I'm sure a quick database check will tell me which ones have strict bail conditions or are on federal release. Associating with an outlaw biker gang would sort of go against those conditions, wouldn't you say?"

"We're not a gang, mate," Chibs said. "We're a club of motorcycle enthusiasts." More chuckles erupted from the MC.

"Chibs, is it?" Quentin said, brandishing his shotgun as he approached Chibs' bike. "Or should I just call you Filip. I haven't forgotten our esteemed visitors from Charming either. I hear Jax Teller's in town. If you could be so kind as to send my regards to the V.P. of SAMCRO, thanks. Oh, and one other thing. Some of your boys are on federal release. If I see any of your crew outside of the Glades sporting their cuts, well, their cuts will belong to me. Understand?" He lowered his voice, so that only Chibs could hear. "Or do I need to translate all of this into Gaelic, so that your thick Celtic skull can comprehend it?"

Chibs wanted to knock the captain's smug grin from his face, but he couldn't risk it. Lance's task force was combing the port lands after the shootout with the Arrow and the cops would be looking for any excuse to detain MC members.

"Aye, I understand," Chibs said, adding under his breath: "You pig."

"What did you say?" Quentin said, tempted to detain the whole lot of them, run their ID's and impound their bikes.

"We've had a long day, Captain," Jim said. "We'll stay in the Glades. Don't worry, you won't see patched members fetching lattes downtown or shopping in your shiny rich boutiques, scaring the local vegans."

"Fair enough," Quentin said, motioning to the trucks to pull back. "Because I'll be watching."

The armoured trucks pulled away and the cops stood down as the SAMSTAR bikes rolled through. SAMSTAR cleared the police roadblock and soon reached a stoplight.

"Stupid pig bastard," Chibs said.

"Lance is a piece of work," Jim said. "He's the real deal. Can't be bought or intimidated."

"A clean Starling City cop?" Chibs said. "First time for everything, eh, boys?" The MC chortled at the joke.

The SCPD was a dirty organization, full of corrupt cops on the take. Informants for many of the Glades' underworld gangs infested every precinct in the city. Lance's by-the-books investigations into the club's activities worried SAMSTAR, though they would never admit it.

SAMSTAR also wouldn't admit that hosting Jax and SAMCRO could bring more heat down on the Glades - and on their MC - than they wanted.

* * *

Jax and his crew left the factory safe house in the morning. SAMCRO's V.P. again extended an invitation to Roy to come by Jim's Auto Works to check on parts for his broken vintage Harley Softail. Roy was officially a friend of the club and it terrified him.

During his criminal days, he was on the lowest peg in the underworld: a petty thief and fence. SAMSTAR was a serious, mid-level player. As Arsenal, he knew his goal was clear - to stop the bad guys. As a lifetime Glades resident, he knew SAMSTAR's relationship with its neighbours was more complicated that this.

Roy was now on the local Starling Downtown Express public transit bus. Ollie had given him a prepaid burner cellphone and it was buzzing like crazy the whole morning. He had no opportunity to check it until after SAMCRO had left the safe house. Soon, the Glades' abandoned warehouses and aging public housing apartment blocks were behind him.

He pressed the STOP button and got out in the redeveloped Chocolate District. Only a few years ago, this had been a swath of dilapidated candy factories, warehouses and crumbling turn-of-century buildings on the frontier between the glittering city and the ruin of the Glades. Developers had bought out the lands and it was now a booming neighbourhood with fashion boutique stores, pretentious coffee houses, snobby prep schools and new condos and townhouses. Half a dozen construction cranes cluttered the skyline for blocks. City officials hoped this was the future of the Glades.

Full of homes that the Glades' poor could never afford to live in and full of schools that their kids could never attend, Roy scowled to himself.

He hated the Chocolate District, not because it erased the area's eye-sore reputation, but because of what it represented. The people who now lived and worked there acted like this place was always like this, as if it came at no cost to the mom-and-pop business owners and struggling families who became exiles when the developers rolled in. But, it was close enough to the Glades and the city that Ollie could appear as himself in broad daylight. Here, Oliver Queen blended in with the white-collar professional, latte-sipping crowd.

In the Glades, the heir to the Queen legacy would stand out like a Rolex watch in a dollar store.

Ollie was waiting for him at one of these hipster coffeehouses, the _Café Arabica_. Moroccan music was playing from an old record player – because the owners were convinced that music on vinyl gave their establishment that 'oh-so-cooler-than-you' vibe to it. A few tables away, a pair of uniformed schoolgirls in plaid skirts nibbled on pricey cranberry scones. They glanced at Roy's rugged jeans and no-name hoodie and snickered derisively at his blue-collar appearance.

God, I hate this place, Roy thought.

A male barista in a pale green t-shirt with a single fir tree logo stopped at their table.

"One cappuccino, Colombian half caf, skim milk, with a dash of Madagascar cinnamon please," Ollie beamed at him.

The barista glowered at Roy with a look that suggested that Roy was out of place in this gentrified neighbourhood, now reclaimed from the barbarism of the Glades. "And you, sir?"

"Coffee, black, no sugar," Roy said.

"We have our house blend, Colombian, Chilean, Moroccan Dark, Arabica Light, Hawaiian Sunrise …"

"Let's just go with the house blend," Roy said testily.

When the barista had left, Ollie lowered his voice. "You have got to pick up the phone when I call. This was important!"

"Yeah, well, I couldn't exactly pick up the phone when you called," Roy said.

"Where were you?" Ollie demanded.

"I was following that lead about the heroin trade in skid row," Roy said, trying to recount his steps. "I think the pusher was with the Three Dragons crew, maybe the Lotus Two's – I wasn't close enough to see any ink or colours on him. He lost me in the Glades."

"Did you know SAMSTAR's mother charter is in town?"

"Yes. Sin told me. We saw them roll in."

"And?"

"They're here to back the local charter, because of all the heat from the port lands shooting."

"Quentin has been leaning hard on them for weeks. He and I both know something's been brewing in the Glades for some time. I'm thinking the h-trade or SAMSTAR's guns have something to do with it." Ollie winced at the pain in his shoulder. "I panicked them when I interrupted the Russian-Yakuza meet last night. All hell broke loose."

"Are you okay?" Roy asked.

"It'll heal," Ollie said. "Look, I know SAMSTAR has this mythical hold over the Glades but it all boils down to this: they sell guns to criminals in Starling City – the drug dealers, mobsters, outlaw biker gangs like the Mayans … they feed off the violence and their guns put lives in danger."

"I met Jax Teller," Roy couldn't keep his encounter a secret any longer. He explained how it was by chance that he struck up a conversation with SAMCRO's V.P., but he didn't elaborate on what happened after the Arrow's attack or that he housed SAMCRO in one of Ollie's own safe houses. Some truths were best left unsaid.

"This could work to our advantage," Ollie said, as he sipped his cappuccino. He was completely at ease in this café, while Roy felt anything but comfortable. He trusted Ollie, but there were times that he felt Ollie's elite upbringing clouded his judgment on all things Glades. SAMSTAR was one of them.

The MC had done countless charity rides in support of Glades Memorial and its children's hospital. The SAMSTAR president's legit repair shop sponsored a pee-wee baseball team that gave the Glades' disadvantaged kids a safe place to play every summer – but all Oliver Queen could see were patches, cuts and outlaws on bikes. Agents of chaos.

As Ollie explained how Roy could exploit his new friendship with Jax to obtain intel on the MC, Roy felt the pull of conflicted loyalties within him. Ollie trusted him - but so did Jax.

The café was full of yuppies and preppy couples in designer clothes. Their kind had taken over yet another city block that once had affordable housing. Now it was affordable to no one, except the well-to-do. SAMSTAR fought against all this. For this reason alone, he wasn't about to offer up all the truths he knew about Jax and the club. Not yet. He would tell Ollie just enough, only the truth he needed to know. What he didn't need – Roy wasn't going to divulge it.

"Will you be paying for both of you," the barista said to Ollie, as if Roy didn't exist, "or will you be splitting the bill?"

"Mr. Queen can pick up the bill," Roy said. "Seeing as no one in this stuck-up neighbourhood thinks that I belong here!" Roy stormed out of the café and brushed past a woman clutching a coffee tumbler and tiny Yorkie with silver ribbons in its hair that yapped incessantly.

Ollie excused himself and chased after Roy. "What is up with you?"

"You don't know SAMSTAR," Roy said, "You may think you know the Glades, but you don't!"

"Roy, you need to knock the Sons and Jax Teller off this pedestal you have them on," Ollie said. "One five-minute conversation with Jax ... and you think you know this guy and his club? Don't kid yourself. He's on federal release, with a rap sheet full of violence and mayhem. He and his crew nearly killed me at the port last night! Whatever he's mixed up in with the Russians and the Yakuza is going to get innocent people hurt or killed in this city. My city!"

Roy knew in one sense that Ollie was right, but he thought the Jax he knew was a good man. Jax was the man who would lead the Sons and the MC back to being a club about freedom and brotherhood. It had lost its way with the gun-running, but he believed that Jax could fix it all. Somehow.

"Look, I'm sorry about making a scene, but maybe if you took the time to –"

"Keep your head out of the clouds and on task," Ollie said. "It's not the 1970s and the MC isn't all about love and fellowship. It's about money and guns – nothing more. SAMSTAR and SAMCRO are public enemy number one. Starling PD and I are on the same page on this. I'll do whatever it takes to bring down the MC – Jax Teller included. Answer the phone when I call next time." Without another word, Ollie returned to the café.

Roy was steamed. He wanted to believe that Ollie valued him as a team member on his mission to fight crime, but lately he felt like an inconvenient junior sidekick that the Arrow would only call if he needed a morsel of information or a lead in the Glades.

He understood that Ollie's near-death experiences changed him, yet Ollie still acted like the team answered to him without question. We kept the streets clean when he was M.I.A., he thought. Roy knew Laurel and even Diggle shared some of his concerns and Felicity seemed to be more distant around Ollie. What they had built was being frittered away by lack of trust and confidence in each other. He didn't know if they could fix what was broken. He felt guilty that his own secrets were contributing to this too.

His personal smartphone buzzed. "Roy, it's Sin. Where are you?"

Roy watched as the woman with the Yorkie stepped gingerly around a piece of crap that her own dog had left by a lamp post. She looked around furtively, then left it without picking it up - her phone conversation and latte more important than cleaning up after her pet.

"In the Chocolate District," Roy grumbled.

"It's full of trust fund brats and hipsters in ponchos." Sin said."Why the hell are you there?"

"I had things to take care of," Roy said. "Lemme tell ya, I can't wait to get back to the Glades."

"Mickey Halloran's out," Sin said. "It looks like SAMSTAR's finally in the clear with the port killing. Marnie says there might be a Reaper party. It'll be nothing crazy like the Memorial Day bash, just a gathering of members and friends of the club. Free food and free booze. I got an invite, but something tells me Jax Teller's new best friend gets one by default."

Mickey had coached the pee-wee baseball team for decades and was a fixture in the Glades. A good man, Roy thought, like John Teller. And Jax.

When Sin's conversation ended, his burner phone buzzed. He thought it was Ollie or Felicity texting him about mission intel, but it wasn't. It was from Jax. He had exchanged numbers with him, never expecting a call.

The text message read:

"Roy. SAMSTAR party. Clubhouse 7 p.m. 2nite. Booze, burritos and babes! Consider this your VIP pass. See u there, bro! J.T."

Roy saw this as an opportunity to get to know the club better. Whether he could obtain valuable intel on the MC at the party or not was unclear.

"There goes the neighbourhood," Roy laughed. Reaper parties were notoriously unpredictable.

* * *

When he met Sin at the clubhouse later that evening, he buzzed the clubhouse gate. Loud rock music echoed across the parking lot. One of SAMSTAR's baby-faced prospects lumbered to the gate. Prospects were not fully-patched members and did the MC's grunt work. This one was stuck with doorman duties tonight.

"It's a private gathering," the prospect said. "For members only."

"Members and friends, you little punk!" Sin said, with no malice. She had gone to high school with the prospect a few years ago.

The prospect looked warily at Roy. "You're ok, Sin, but what about Hollister poster dude over here? Who the hell is he?"

In the distance, a long-legged blonde strolled towards the gate. Every eye at the party was looking at her. She was dressed in what looked like a green leprechaun or elf Halloween costume. That was his best guess.

A scandalously sexy, X-rated leprechaun stripper costume, Roy thought. He could only assume that celebrating Mickey's Irish roots were reason enough for the outfit.

"You're Roy Harper, right?" the blonde said, smiling. "I'm Lyla. Opie's old lady. Come on in!" The prospect grinned sheepishly and unlocked the gate.

"That's right!" Opie hollered from across the lot. "My old lady - so don't get any ideas, Harper!" A roar of laughter erupted from the dozens of patched members, who were gathered around folding tables and benches. Metal barrels flickered with flames, lighting up the dark parking lot. A pair of leather-clad crow eaters were table dancing nearby.

Bobby, whose breath stank of cigarettes and liquor, wrapped one arm around Roy's shoulder and the other around Sin's. "Sin, have you ever heard of the _Saffron Sisters_?" Bobby had visited SAMSTAR over the years and had known Sin since she was a child.

Sin played dumb and knew something was up. "Why, no, Bobby Elvis, who are the _Saffron Sisters_? Do tell."

Roy's jaw dropped when he learned that Lyla Winston was a porn star with a successful franchise of direct-to-DVD adult movies. She had been on a West Coast promotional tour. The other Saffron Sister, Ima, was still up in Portland. Lyla had leaped at the chance to see Opie while he was still in Starling.

Sin's crow-eater friend Marnie, wearing a black tank top, studded belt and ripped jeans, gave Roy a plate of food and salad. "We've got more Tex-Mex than all of Dallas tonight. Help yourself, don't be shy, honey." Members were offering him beer every other second and he declined most of them. I need to keep my senses about me, he thought.

Jax exited the clubhouse and immediately spotted Roy's red hoodie. "This guy, right here, made sure me and my boys stayed whole last night!" He embraced Roy in a bear hug and clapped him on the shoulder.

"You really stepped up last night, Roy," Opie said, embracing him like a brother. "Igor's got a bottle of vodka with your name on it. The Russians might even want to adopt you!"

Jax raised his bottle of beer in the air. "To Roy Harper - a true friend of the club!"

"To Roy!" the members toasted him. A loud cheer rattled through the compound.

"Thanks for keeping my man safe," Lyla said. Opie stole a kiss from her.

"You're in the Reaper's embrace now, my friend," Bobby said. He was drunk and lazily hobbled over to Opie and Lyla with a plate of nachos. "He won't ever let go now." Roy felt a chill stab through him after these words, as if the Devil were clawing at his soul.

There was a lot of booze flowing at the party and local hearsay told Roy that MC parties could quickly descend into brawls, orgies or wanton vandalism, but it seemed that Jax's presence kept everyone on their good behaviour. So far.

Within hours, the party did become rowdier and Roy had real concerns for Sin's safety around the more lecherous MC members. But she was safe among the gaggle of crow eaters and old ladies smoking near the gate. Roy had moved well away from the rowdier members and was eating some cake alone at a picnic bench. He was on his third beer, now lukewarm after nursing it for hours.

Jax had sobered up a little, lit up a cigarette and sat beside Roy. He took out a photo of Tara, Abel and Thomas standing outside a playground.

"That's my family," Jax said, proudly pointing them out on the photo. "That's Tara, she's a surgeon in Charming. This is Abel. And Thomas. My beautiful family. Everything I do is for them, for their future." He looked up in the sky in silence for several moments. Tears began to sting his eyes. "They deserve better," he said, wiping his eyes. "Maybe it's the booze talking, with me cryin' like some 13 year old girl watching one of those damn _Twilight_ movies. Shit."

Roy nodded towards the photo. "I can tell you care about them a lot."

"More than you know, bro," Jax said. He glanced over his shoulder to watch as one of the crow eaters and a SAMSTAR member were play-fighting. Someone else had thrown a beer bottle, which smashed against the clubhouse wall. "I'll be leaving all of this behind soon."

"Leaving what?" Roy asked. He wasn't sure what Jax was getting at, or if it was just the ramblings of an intoxicated biker.

He looked at the photo again, then stomped the butt of his cigarette into the ground. "I'm getting out of the life." He paused, unsure if he should confide this truth to someone he had only met a day ago. But Roy was from here, from the Glades. He had lived the life of a criminal too, done some time. He was out of the life, pursuing his dream of becoming a mechanic. For the sake of his own family, Jax believed that he had to make his own dream come true: freedom from the life and security for his sons.

It wasn't the beer talking. He felt more convinced than ever about pursuing this distant fantasy and claiming it as his own.

"I don't know why I'm telling you all this," Jax continued, "maybe it's 'cause you're not a member but know the life. You know what it's like to march outside society's borders, just like the Sons. You understand, bro. I can trust you."

He paused again, hesitant about admitting a potentially dangerous truth. "I'm leaving SAMCRO. I'm taking my family out of Charming and out of the life for good. I've told very few people about my plans and nobody here knows, so it would be a good idea to keep this to yourself. I'll break it to the MC when the timing is right. Now is not the time, not when we're so close to scoring big. I want to keep my club whole with this Irish deal. Then I'll cash out, and give my boys a better future. Me, Tara and my sons."

Roy wanted to learn more about SAMCRO's plans with the Irish and the 'big score' when an argument broke out between two drunken SAMSTAR members over a crow eater's affections. Bobby was trying to separate them, but it was becoming noisy. One of them pulled out his knife and began slashing it in the air.

"Jesus Christ," Jax said. "I think the party's officially over. You might want to split before things get out of hand for real." While Jax, Chibs and Bobby struggled to separate the feuding SAMSTAR members, Roy took the opportunity to collect his tipsy friend Sin and leave the party.

As they were leaving, Roy glanced back at the parking lot. With the silhouettes of the Reaper's minions swearing and wrestling each other against the ominous glow of the flaming barrels, it looked like he was staring into the gates of Hell.

Jax, the Reaper prince, was fighting an uphill battle to keep the chaos from consuming both his club and his family. Roy knew that Jax had to leave the life, soon.

Before the Reaper took everything he loved.

 **To be continued ...**


	6. Episode 6

**_"Done to Death By Slanderous Tongue"_**

SAMCRO President Clay Morrow cursed at the biting wind. He was waiting in a deserted long-haul trucking weigh station, north of Sacramento and away from his base of control in Charming and the Bay Area. Tig and Happy were supposed to be back from up north with the latest shipment of guns from the Irish. The MC's deal with the Galindo cartel depended on this shipment. He was with Juice and a dozen patches from Tacoma and he wanted to keep as low a profile as possible.

He felt vulnerable. Most of SAMCRO had gone up north to provide bodies and relief for a brother charter under pressure in Starling. Jax hadn't responded to his calls for the past day and news that the SCPD was sniffing around SAMSTAR's business at the Starling port concerned him. He had heard about the masked vigilantes in the news and hadn't put much stock in their threat – until Tig told him the Arrow had disrupted a meet between Starling's Russians, SAMSTAR and some new Japanese players.

More goddamn mouths to feed, Clay thought. He didn't like the idea of new partners cutting into the club's business – or cutting into his future retirement fund.

A rumble in the distance became louder. To his surprise, a large orange school bus rolled into the weigh station. The bus stopped abruptly a few feet. The doors opened and both Happy and Tig stepped out, looking weary and exhausted.

Clay shook his head. "A school bus? Really? We were supposed to keep the delivery low-key."

"Couldn't be helped, Clay," Tig said. "That Arrow prick stirred it up real good at the port. The Soviets and the sushis freaked out, but Jax kept them onside. The Arrow played us. Now the Starling PD's anti-gang task force is scouring the port for evidence. We had to pull the guns out ASAP. We were lucky SAMSTAR had this bus."

"The guns are accounted for," Happy said. "SIGs, KG-9'S, Glocks, ammo – it's all there. There's more good news: Mickey Halloran walked. The D.A. couldn't tie him to the port murder. Jax says we're good with the Russians at the port. The cops won't find dick about the MC there. SAMSTAR's in the clear."

"Good," Clay said. "With SAMSTAR holding its own, we need bodies back in Charming. I've been stuck with only Tacoma, the prospects, Miles and Juice, while Jax and the boys have been living it up in granola land. We need to secure this shipment and be ready to mule the blow once Romeo's crew arrives."

"But Jax said he wanted us back in Starling as soon as we made the delivery," Happy began. "SAMSTAR's under siege on all sides. There's a gang turf war brewing up there. Once you count the Yakuza and the triads, they're totally outmanned. It could hit the fan at any moment – they'll need patches. And plenty of them."

"Look, I don't give a shit what Jax told you," Clay said. "Last I checked, I'm still wearing the President's patch." He stabbed his finger into Happy's chest. "And don't get your boxers in a knot about Starling's gang troubles. The gangs there have been pecking at each other for decades and SAMSTAR's survived it all. We've been funneling guns for all sides, for Christ's sakes. They will stay whole."

"But –" Tig began.

"We're not at the table here!" Clay said, exasperated. "We'll have Rogue River pick up the school bus and take it back. I've got Tacoma and the prospects waiting at our new warehouse - it's Oswald's old lumber storage property. We're going there to lock this down and heading back to Charming. End of discussion."

"Look, right, man – okay," Tig said. "We're with you." He didn't like the idea of Clay and Jax squabbling over boots on the ground. It wasn't good for business – or the MC. He was still Clay's right hand at heart and he wanted to do something to placate both of them.

He spotted Juice polishing his bike in the distance and pulled Clay aside. "Maybe we can send Juice up there, he can be your eyes on the ground. If he thinks that SAMSTAR doesn't need the bodies, you just say the word and Jax and the guys will come back. That was always the plan anyway. The Arrow don't know shit about the club or our business. He can't hurt us."

"Juice, eh?" Clay said. "This new sheriff's been ridin' him hard with all these trumped up release violations with the weed shop. Might be good for the MC, if he's not around Charming for a few days."

He called Juice over. "Juice, did your P.O. sign off on that charity ride for Glades Memorial?"

"I got the okay last night," Juice said. Clay explained to him that Jax needed bodies in Starling to shore up SAMSTAR's ranks. In moments, Juice had revved up his bike and rode north to the Cali-Oregon border.

The Tacoma crew transferred the guns to empty oil barrels, while Happy and Tig strapped on their helmets for the ride home.

"You worried he's still pissed at us," Tig said. "Don't be. Or are you pissed that Clay was wrong – about you and boxers?"

"Dead wrong," Happy said. "I'm going commando. Always do on long rides. It minimizes chafing."

"Geez, really?" Tig smirked. "No, seriously, what's up. You've been, like, scary quiet since we rode through Redding."

"It's not the gangs or the cops that I'm worried about in Starling," Happy said. "Jim is a strong president for SAMSTAR. He was in John Teller's platoon in Vietnam, a soldier through and through. They've got that shit contained."

"Then what is it, exactly?" Tig said. "It can't be about the Robin Hood vigilante – or his little red-hooded sidekick, or that new blonde chick in the black mask that's been beating up street thugs in the Glades lately."

"I am worried," Happy said. "This guy and his crew have been at it for awhile now. The SAMSTAR guys were saying he's even executed crank pushers, lowlifes and crooked business types. This dude's on a mission. A freaking crusade. He's committed to his cause – that's the scary part! You saw what he did at the port, he played us like violins. And now he's got more masked followers. He needs to die. Like, yesterday!"

Tig shrugged. "Nothin' we can do about that now, that's in Jax's hands," Tig said as he turned on his bike's ignition. "Clay is right: we need more than just prospects on hand when we pick up the blow from Galindo."

Miles away, Juice rode north to the Oregon border. An unmarked sedan pulled out of a hidden laneway. When Juice merged into traffic and joined the main highway north, the sedan tailed him at a discreet distance.

A federal agent, in civilian clothes, dialed his smartphone. "Ortiz has left the weigh station, sir. He's alone. It looks like he's heading up towards Josephine County. I will let you know once he crosses the Oregon border."

Lincoln Potter was on the other line. "We follow the crumbs that SAMCRO is leaving behind. If they lead to Starling City, we can coordinate with Starling P.D. They can pick up Ortiz on a release violation. Once he's detained, we can pressure him to provide info on SAMSTAR's connection to that killing at the state border. If Halloran won't play ball with us, I'm sure Juice will."

"And what if Ortiz doesn't want to play ball?" the agent asked.

"He has no choice," Potter said, munching on a ridiculously large bag of caramel popcorn. "No choice at all."

* * *

Oliver and John Diggle parked the plain-looking sedan two blocks away from Malone's, a rundown Irish pub in the east end of the Glades. Diggle looked nervously around the neighbourhood. It was after 1 a.m. - when even the Glades residents knew was not a safe hour to be outside. In an alleyway around the corner, two addicts were openly using meth.

"I understand why you feel uncomfortable in this neck of the woods," Ollie said.

"Yeah, no kidding," Diggle said. "A black youth was nearly beaten to death here last month, just because he got off the bus at the wrong stop. This block is full of racist crackers, strung out meth-heads and jack-booted skinheads."

Ollie nodded towards the pub. "Redmond Malone is the pub's owner. He used to run guns for the IRA, before the Good Friday agreement was in place. I knew him during my time in exile. He's out of the life now, but he may be our best lead in finding out if there's any connection to the port murder and the trouble in the underworld lately. We know the Irish and SAMCRO have a long-running relationship over the gun trade."

"Well, the sooner we're out of this hood, the better, you know what I'm saying?" Diggle said. He slipped his Glock into his rear waistband.

When they entered, Malone was stacking bar stools. His back was still turned to them. Traditional Celtic music, full of fiddles and tin flutes, played over the sound system.

"I'm afraid we're closed for the night, but we're open tomorrow if you fancy a pint," he said, with a hint of the Ulster accent of his youth.

"Actually we're looking for some information ... Redmond," Ollie said. Malone turned around and recognized him.

"Oliver Queen," Malone nodded and clapped him on the shoulder. "I was afraid you might have been one of the locals, tryin' to jump me for today's cash deposit."

Ollie nodded to Diggle. "My associate, John Diggle."

Malone took Diggle's hand warily. "Get you fellas a pint?" He directed them to a booth in the rear.

"Not today, thanks," Ollie said. All along the south wall of the pub were old photos of the Irish countryside and Belfast in the 1980's. "You've probably heard about that security guard killing at the port. SAMSTAR was there ..."

Malone sighed deeply. "I figured this wasn't a social call. Look, I don't know much. And what little I do know could complicate things for me, if the wrong people found out."

"You've kept your nose clean since you left Belfast," Ollie said, "and you've been keeping your head down. But whatever's going on at the port is spilling out into the streets. Into the Glades. We can't sit this one out. There's a power struggle - I don't know if it's over turf, guns or drugs. SAMSTAR's in the middle of it somehow. And that means the Real IRA is involved. If Jax Teller's in town, then it must be big. All I'm asking is that you point me in the right direction."

"That's a really big ask," Malone said. He wandered over to the bar and poured himself a glass of whiskey. He also brought two glasses of club soda for Ollie and Diggle.

"Any detail could help," Ollie said.

Malone savoured a sip from his drink. He left the IRA for good, but he was always wary that his old sins could follow him across the Atlantic. "Some of my brethren are not as eager to lay down their arms and make nice with the Brits. The Real IRA's shot-callers - they call themselves the Irish Kings - upped their volume of supply recently. And we're not talking just Glocks and .38's. Big guns. AK's, RPG's and such. Like, seriously military-grade shite."

"Oh God," Diggle said. "What if that stuff hits the streets?" Diggle said.

Malone shook his head. "The order is not for anyone local, as far as I know. I doubt any of the local crews will get their hands on them. Weapons like those bring too much heat."

Ollie took a sip of his club soda. The Real IRA would never sell such weaponry to the local gangbangers, not just because the Irish Kings saw themselves as a better class of criminal than the street thugs. Racism was ingrained into their psyche and they normally would never do business with partners who weren't the right skin complexion - which, in their eyes, was white.

"The mafia?" Ollie said. "Or, maybe even the Yakuza? The Yamamoto clan rolled into town a few months ago."

"It's possible and they've all got deep enough pockets," Malone said. "Money is the great equalizer. I do know SAMSTAR'S handling transportation for sure, possibly storage too. But those guns are ending up elsewhere - not here and probably not even stateside. My guess is Mexico."

Diggle groaned. "Great. Some big drug cartel rivalry exploded in Mexico about six months ago. My money's on those Irish guns arming one of the sides in this feud. One of the cartels must be the buyer! Nothing else makes sense."

Ollie finished off his soda. "Thanks, Redmond. At least we know what we may be up against." He and Diggle were about to leave when the door chimes jingled.

A tall, well-built grey-haired man in a pristine white dress shirt and tailored suit stepped through the door, along with three thuggish associates.

"Mother of God," Malone cursed under his breath.

"Sorry to interrupt this quaint gathering," the new visitor said, in a distinctly Irish accent. He glared at Ollie and Diggle. "I'm afraid you and your black friend will need to move along. Redmond and I have some unfinished business to discuss."

"There are only four of them," Diggle whispered. "We could take them."

Ollie shook his head. "Not here." He knew he could take two of them down if he needed to, but not before the bullets started flying. In the confined space of the pub, it was too dangerous.

The visitor extended his hand to Ollie. "I'm Galen O'Shay. Pleased to meet your acquaintance ... Oliver Queen."

Ollie grimaced. "I know who you are."

Galen grinned. "Then you know that I have no patience for foolishness. It's long past your bedtime, Junior. Tell your boy to bring your car around and drive you home."

"I'm nobody's 'boy'!" Diggle snarled. He stood up, but Galen's associates moved their hands into their blazer pockets. They were all armed.

"Stand down, gents," Galen said. "There's no reason we can't have a civil discussion with Starling City's most famous citizen."

Galen stepped closer to Ollie and spoke in a low tone. "I knew your father, Robert, for more than fifteen years. He was a loyal and trusted friend. He understood the value of building relationships."

"You're a criminal who puts guns into the hands of lowlifes and gangbangers!" Ollie said.

"That is the price of supporting the cause," Galen said. "Until the Union Jack is lowered for the last time over Northern Ireland and every bloody imperialist soldier has left my homeland - the fight is all that matters. Doing business with bikers, slants and wetbacks in the Glades is a necessary evil."

"You're no better than those skinhead crews out there," Ollie scoffed. "You're nothing more than an O.G. lining his pockets - and fighting for a dead cause."

Galen's expression soured. "I won't trade barbs with a snotty little prick like you. My impression of you from the news headlines is not much. You're a tempermental trust fund brat, squandering his father's fortune on frivolous things, blackening his family name with sordid escapades." He glared at Malone and Diggle. "And consorting with traitors and coloured gangsters from the hood. Now that I've met you, my poor impression of you has been confirmed. Any bond I once had with the Queen family died with Robert, God rest his soul, when the sea took his life. Your father was a lion of this city. A lion! A leader of men. You? You're nothing but a whelp. No relationship exists between us. The only reason I'll let you and your dark friend walk out of here tonight in one piece is the friendship I had with Robert. That is the extent of my mercy. Go - now - before we send you out of the Glades on a stretcher. Or worse."

The music that was now playing on the sound system was a folk singer's bitter ballad - raging about revolution, lost comrades and injustice.

"Malone comes with us," Ollie said.

"Malone stays where he is," Galen said. "Now get the hell out before I change my mind!"

"You'd best leave, Oliver," Malone said, resigned to his fate. "Nothing you can do here. This isn't your war. Take care, lads."

"Let's go," Ollie said. He and Diggle left the pub, knowing that Malone's well-being was now uncertain in the hands of the Real IRA.

"I don't like this at all," Diggle said. "We should help your friend - he gave us the heads-up on that tsunami of trouble that's about to roll into town. We can't just leave him behind!" He began to march back to the pub.

"Malone understood the risks," Ollie said, grabbing Diggle's arm. "Galen O'Shay is one of the most dangerous men in the Real IRA - cold-blooded, ruthless and greedy. A deadly combination. If we do something about it now, he will slit _all_ our throats and there will be three bodies in the morgue tomorrow morning! My job is to make sure you go home to your wife and baby daughter, intact. Malone is a survivor. He may be able to talk his way out this mess, it wouldn't be the first time he's had to."

"But you're not sure about that, are you?" Diggle said as he entered the sedan. Two blocks away, three grim-looking skinheads in military boots stared angrily at Diggle. It was time to get out of this neighbourhood.

"No, Diggle - I'm not sure," Ollie said.

Their sedan headed west, towards the safety of the downtown core.

Outside St. Zachary's Catholic Church in the Glades, before the 10 a.m. Mass, Fr. Michael stumbled upon a sleeping homeless man at the front steps. He was covered in a tarpaulin, but once the priest lifted the cover he discovered a dead body. The man had three shots to the head - a professional killing.

24 hours later the medical examiner confirmed that the body was that of Glades pub owner - and ex-IRA gunrunner - Redmond Malone. The hit was a favour for Malone's former IRA commanders: payback for an ancient betrayal. There were no known witnesses.

Malone's luck had run out - and the Irish Kings reminded the underworld that they were still major players in the city.

 **To be continued ...**


	7. Episode 7

" _ **Wontons and Sushis"**_

Ollie's sister, Thea, watched as Roy hungrily wolfed down some dim sum at the Lucky Sparrow Restaurant in Chinatown. They had once been romantically involved, but they managed to remain friends. Thea had been involved in the party drug scene in high school – she was no stranger to that world - and she could understand Roy's journey from street hoodlum to street vigilante in ways that Ollie himself never could.

She deftly picked up a dumpling with chopsticks, while Roy struggled to eat a wonton without a fork.

Roy pushed his chopsticks aside. "One day I'll get the hang of using those things – just not today."

"I spent part of Grade 9 at an international academy in Hong Kong," Thea said. "Away from this city, my parents, Ollie …" Her mind wandered. "I was never more afraid to be alone back then, but I never felt more free either. I could just be me, you know. And not Thea Queen, the spoiled little socialite. Maybe that's why I love coming back to Chinatown."

"I keep forgetting you were born with a silver spoon," Roy said. "Heiress to the Queen fortune and all that."

Thea tossed a grain of rice at him. "Ollie may have been the black sheep, but I wasn't that much better. I just hid it better. But you didn't invite me to lunch to talk about my pampered and misspent high school years."

Roy nodded. He had grown closer to SAMCRO over the past two days, closer than he would have liked. He was a friend of the MC now, a confidant of Jax Teller. He was now burdened with the potentially deadly secret about Jax's plans to leave the MC for good and take his family away from Charming. As much as he wanted to tell Thea everything, he knew that giving Thea such knowledge would place her in danger. He explained to her that he had become a friend of the MC and that he had become more than an acquaintance of Jax.

He had become his friend. This was already a dangerous admission. Without giving any details, he alluded to helping SAMCRO on the night of Ollie's attack at the port.

"I don't like where this is going, Roy," Thea said.

"Ollie wanted me to keep tabs on SAMCRO," Roy said, "but now that I'm tight with their crew I might be able to learn more about their plans. Ollie is already checking the Irish connection, but we're still hazy about why that security guard was killed. The papers were suggesting that it was the Yakuza … some drug deal went sideways."

"And you figured the resident ex-junkie party girl might have an idea about how to find out," Thea said, "considering that my purse used to be a portable pharmacy back in the day."

"Something like that," Roy said.

Thea picked up her purse. "Well, pay the bill and let's go then!"

"Right now?"

"Yes, right now! We're going for a walk in Chinatown."

There had always been a Chinatown in Starling City, ever since the railway arrived in the 1880's. Above the gaudy signage and neon signs with Cantonese lettering, Roy could see what remained of the 19th-century buildings that housed the city's earliest Chinese immigrants.

Thea stopped at a fruit stand and pretended to sort through a pile of tangerines. "See that main street cutting through Chinatown?" she said, pointing at the road.

Roy stared down the road – lined with Chinese restaurants, retail shops, pharmacies and DVD vendors. "Yeah, what about it?"

"Everything from 9th Street to the edges of the Chocolate District is controlled by one gang: the Three Dragons Triad," Thea said. "Everyone pays them protection here."

"I thought the Dragons had to share this turf with the new Vietnamese crews and the Shanghai Boys," Roy said.

Thea shook her head. "The Three Dragons always called the shots, they're the biggest players in Chinatown. Always have been. Every single drug dealer I ever bought from was linked in some way to the Three Dragons. Nothing happens in Chinatown without the triad knowing about it."

"But what does that have to do with the killing at the port?" Roy asked. "The Russians run the port, SAMSTAR owns a couple of warehouses and runs protection rackets there."

"And who's their biggest customer at the port?" Thea said.

"The Chinese," Roy said.

"If things did go sideways when that guard was killed," Thea said, "it couldn't be the Yakuza that did it. There's no way the Three Dragons would allow them to stir things up at the port. The Dragons are the biggest heroin suppliers from here to San Diego. A killing like that draws heat. It's reckless and sloppy – it has to be a newer player."

"My guess is one of the Vietnamese or Shanghai crews," Roy said.

They had walked several blocks in Chinatown and were now approaching the Little Shanghai district. The more opulent restaurants of Old Chinatown gave way to sketchier take-out dives, massage parlours and pawn shops. This area of "new" Chinatown had gained notoriety due to a series of gang-related shootings and assaults this past winter, as the Vietnamese and Shanghai crews tested the limits of triad territory. The SCPD anti-gang task force was fast-tracked in response to this.

"We'd better turn around and head back to downtown," Thea said. A few blocks away, half a dozen Shanghai Boys ogled Thea and glared at Roy. This was their turf and they didn't like strangers.

"Yeah," Roy said warily. He flagged a cab and they hurriedly hopped into the back.

"You think the newer gangs muscling in on the Three Dragons' heroin trade had something to do with the port killing?"

"I'll bet you ten dollars that the h-trade was exactly the reason," Thea challenged.

Roy smirked as he watched the colourful signs and bright lights of Chinatown streak past them. "You're on, Thea Queen."

* * *

Jax took a drag from a cigarette outside Jim's Auto Works. Jim – the repair shop owner and SAMSTAR president – was working on the engine of an old Impala. The garage was filled with the smell of motor oil and the loud curses of its mechanics. Half of the employees were also full-patch SAMSTAR members.

Jax studied Jim. He had silvery, close-cropped hair and was built like a marathon runner. A confidant of John Teller, Jim had fought with John in Vietnam and survived battles by his side. There were even rumours that Jim had done secret black-ops missions in Laos. During the war, a Viet Cong sniper had killed their lieutenant. Jim had earned his sergeant's stripes earlier and took command of their platoon, which included John, Piney and Clay. He had led them to safety from behind enemy lines, a feat that guaranteed his spot as a SAMSTAR original patch back in '71. Clay was never close to Jim, but he also knew that he owed Jim his life. He was in Jim's debt – a fact that Clay always resented.

Jax stomped the cigarette butt into the ground and strolled into the garage.

"You can tell Roy that he can pick up the Harley parts by the end of the week," Jim said.

"Thanks," Jax said. "Listen, mind if I bounce some things off you?"

"Sure," Jim said. He noticed the V. PRESIDENT flash on Jax's cut. "Your old man would be proud of you."

Jax nodded. "Things have been dicey lately, with the shit at the port, the Russians, the sushis and the Arrow. I don't want to be stepping on toes here. It's your club, your call. We don't have to roll with the Yakuza if you don't want to."

Jim smiled. "I actually agree with your play at the port. Things are heating up … not just at the port but across the Glades. The old alliances – the guidos, the micks, the Soviets – might not be enough this time. Don Marco and Mr. Fong have kept things in the Glades from boiling over, but all that shit with the port killing and the Arrow stirring the pot is making them very, very nervous." Don Marco was the mafia kingpin of Starling City, while Mr. Fong was leader of the Three Dragons Triad.

"If things go south in the Glades, how do you think it'll land?" Jax said.

Jim sighed. "Not well for SAMSTAR. Guns have kept us in everyone's good graces, but if the Bratva want to get into the gun trade we won't be able to stop them. Our Russian buddies at the port won't turn on us, but they'll have to sit this out if the Bratva move into guns. We could probably count on the Irish – and that's it. The mafia and the triad are the biggest players - they can afford to stay neutral while we cut each other to shreds and pick up what's left. If things do jump off in the Glades – it'll likely be brown and yellow versus black and white. It would be the goddamn 1980's all over again."

"Jesus Christ," Jax cursed. "Halloran was saying the whole hood is spooked by the port killing. The locals counted on us to keep the Glades safe. With the Undertaking and Slade Wilson's shit-storm, they're losing confidence in the MC. The security guard who was killed – he lived in the Glades. His widow works at Glades Memorial. They're one of us … and people are sayin' we couldn't protect them."

"You think the Japs are making a play for the triad's h-trade?" Jim said. "Or maybe one of the newer slant gangbangers, expanding their territory?"

"That's why I'm meeting up with our sushi brothers later today – to iron shit out," Jax said. "And we need to set a meet with the Yamamoto family boss when he comes back from Japan. SAMSTAR won't have a chance if we can't get at least one of the yellow crews on-side. Or, at least keep them Swiss-neutral."

"I'll set a meet with Mr. Fong – soon," Jim said. "They already know SAMCRO's in town. If the Vice President of the MC's mother charter visits the city without meeting the head of the most powerful triad in the Pacific Northwest, they will see it as a sign of disrespect. If we can't get the Japs on board, then we will need Chinese support. We're dead in the water if both the sushis and the wontons turn against us."

The gravity of all the work they needed to do began to dawn on Jax. "Copy that. Hey, I'm all about cultural diversity and economic diversification." Jim embraced him and returned to the garage.

A Harley rumbled into the garage parking lot. Chibs hopped off his bike and embraced Jax.

"Hey Jackie boy," Chibs said. "Clay just called. He said Tig and Happy delivered the guns safe and sound. The guns are heading south, with Tacoma as escort. Juice should be here sometime tonight."

"I heard you ran into the city's new anti-gang task force commander," Jax said.

"Aye," Chibs said. "Lance was just slappin' his dick around. He knows we're here, but he'll be hands-off as long as we stay in the Glades. No cuts downtown – or he'll take them. I've let the boys know."

Jax sensed that Chibs was worried. "We've got a lot of work ahead of us this afternoon. We need to lock down our relationships with the Yakuza and the Three Dragons. If we can't keep them as partners, we need to ensure that we're out of their cross-hairs when things do turn to shit in the Glades."

"Then you won't like this news, Jackie," Chibs said.

He pulled out an article from the Starling City Record, with the headline: " _Pub owner murdered, body left on church steps._ " Jax read the article and his blood boiled. It was a professional hit, with all the markings of a Real IRA slaying.

"Galen O'Shay arrived in Portland the day before last," Chibs said. "The hit was his doing, no doubt. He says he's here on Army business, but he's been dealing under the table in the Glades for years. He's one greedy bugger."

Jax crushed the article in his fist and tossed it on the ground. "He'll flood the market with his Catholic guns 'n bullets and set the whole Glades on fire! He doesn't give a shit about the MC or the people who live in this hood. He'll make a tidy profit from the war, while we bleed out on the streets. He doesn't like me, but he might still listen to you. We need to sort this out with Galen. You convince that Irish prick that this ain't Belfast. He can't settle personal beefs on the street like that – not with this Captain Lance watching our every move."

Jax strapped on his helmet and straddled his bike. "When you're done, you and Bobby meet me at _The Smiling Geisha_ , it's in the Chocolate District. I need to sort shit out with our new samurai friends."

Chibs eyes lit up. " _The Smiling Geisha_?"

"I knew you'd like that," Jax said. "This sushi buffet is all-you-can-eat. I hope you're hungry."

Over the roar of his Harley, Jax could hear Chibs howling in delight.

Jax's bike zoomed towards the Chocolate District. With the wind in his hair and the drone of the Harley's engine in his ears, Jax considered the benefits and pitfalls of a SAMCRO-Yakuza alliance.

The best-case scenario would be a formal business partnership with the Yamamoto clan: a powerful and politically-connected ally if the Chinese were to turn against the MC in a Glades war. It would not only keep SAMSTAR whole – it could provide the MC with much-needed revenue and influence with the underworld's major players.

Jax shuddered at the worst-case scenario: a triad-versus-Yakuza war over the heroin trade. It would be a war that SAMSTAR could not sit out. The MC would have no choice but to back one side or the other, with no guarantee of surviving the fallout.

Black, brown and white crews would question their relationships with the MC, as they backed either Yamamoto or the Three Dragons out of fear or necessity. SAMSTAR could also lose leverage if either the Bratva or the Irish made side deals over the gun trade with the warring parties.

The mafia would wait out the war and make peace with the victor, while picking over the bones of the losers and carving up territories.

If SAMCRO backed the losing side, the blowback could scuttle the fragile peace in Oaktown and impact every Reaper charter from Washington to Arizona. No one would be safe then.

God help us all if we're on the wrong side of this, Jax thought.

 **To be continued ...**


	8. Episode 8

**_"Uncomfortable Truths"_**

Juan Carlos Ortiz aka Juice finished off his apple pie and large iced tea at the truck stop diner. He had just crossed the border into Oregon. After riding for hours, he wanted to grab a snack before heading into Starling City. He looked at the headline of yesterday's _USA Today_ :

 _'Masked vigilante foils underworld meeting in Starling City'_

Juice smirked. He couldn't believe this Arrow guy got the drop on the MC. "It must be Halloween everyday up there." He checked his phone – a prepaid burner phone that couldn't be traced. No messages from Clay, Jax or anyone from SAMCRO.

In moments, he revved up his Harley and drove north. He knew he should be thinking about what SAMCRO could do to prepare for the next time the Arrow set his sights on them, but he was distracted.

Lt. Roosevelt's leverage terrified him. _He knows who my real father is._ I could be out of the club if anyone ever found out, he thought. _I might get out alive in one piece … if I'm lucky._

He pushed these uncomfortable thoughts out of his head. Soon the endless rows of evergreens and pastoral scenery soothed his troubled mind. He would prove his loyalty to Clay, Jax and SAMCRO. Maybe if he showed that he was loyal and hard enough, the club might overlook the dangerous truth Roosevelt threatened to divulge to them.

After riding for an hour, he spotted a small yellow sign 'Now entering Starling City limits – Downtown in 15 miles'. He pulled into an isolated rest stop and checked his messages.

Before he could scroll down to the latest messages, he heard the sirens and horn of a police cruiser. The logo on the car said 'Starling City Police Department'. He quickly glanced at the last message on his phone. It was from Chibs, explaining that the SCPD had forbidden the wearing of "gang colours" within the city and that the Glades would be the only place in the city where Reaper cuts would be tolerated.

"Oh shit! Shit!" Juice said, as he struggled to take off his own cut. But it was too late.

Two uniformed SCPD officers approached him.

"License, please," the first officer demanded. Juice nervously pulled out his wallet and showed them his identification.

"Gang colours aren't permitted in Starling City, Mr. Ortiz," the second officer said.

"We're not in the downtown core," Juice said, hoping to get out of this awkward situation. "I'll be heading straight to the Glades."

"Well, we're not in the Glades, are we?" the first officer said. "You're within city limits. That means your cut now belongs to the SCPD."

"This is bullshit!" Juice said. His heated response was a mistake. The officers shoved him against the police cruiser and frisked him, taking his knife and a bag of weed.

"I have a card for that," Juice said weakly. The officers laughed.

"See that valley back there behind you?" the second officer said. "That's California. You're on federal release. That medical marijuana card means shit up here in Oregon." Before Juice realized what had happened, he was stripped of his MC cut and shoved into the backseat of the cruiser.

Fifteen minutes later, he found himself in the interrogation room of the SCPD's downtown precinct. Quentin and Laurel entered the room. They said nothing for several minutes as they skimmed through a thick legal file.

"Juan Carlos Ortiz, otherwise known as Juice," Quentin said, reviewing Juice's rap sheet. "SAMCRO's hacker expert, marijuana entrepreneur ... and colonic cleanse specialist."

"I want my lawyer," Juice said.

"Relax," Quentin said, "I'm not going to bust you on the weed. Or take your cut. I'd be well within my rights to do both. But I won't, for now."

"What the hell does that mean?"

Laurel pulled out a screen capture photo pulled from a gas station security camera.

"There was a recent killing of a Los Diablos gang member," Laurel said. "We know SAMSTAR was present, there's no mistaking the patches on those cuts. And from this photo, it's evident that you were there also. Tell us what you know about what went down that night, if it was an execution with the Reaper's blessing. Tell us what happened and you can still walk out of here a full-patch SAMCRO member."

"You can't prove anything!" Juice insisted. "I had nothing to do with that killing." He began to get out of his seat. "If you're not busting me on the weed, I'm outta here."

Quentin's phone buzzed. "You're not going anywhere until you take this call."

Juice was puzzled. "W-what's all this about?"

"Go on," Quentin said. "It's for you." Laurel also looked puzzled, as she had assumed that they were just going to use the weed and the gang colours ban as their leverage. Her father had another plan on deck.

Juice picked up the phone. "Hello?"

"Hey, Juice, how's it going?" The other voice was Lt. Roosevelt.

"Why are you calling Captain Lance's phone?" Juice demanded.

"Let's just say Quentin and I have got common friends."

"What's all this about?"

"I had the chance to tell Quentin all about my experiences with SAMCRO here in lovely Charming," Roosevelt continued. "He knows a lot about SAMSTAR, but squat about SAMCRO. I helped him to fill in the blanks on all the players. That includes you, Ortiz."

Laurel noticed that Juice paled at something that was said on the phone. The toughness and bravado had completely melted away from his face.

"I strongly urge you to cooperate with my friend Quentin," Roosevelt said. "He knows all about your daddy and our shared cultural roots. Help them and I can help you."

"And what happens if I don't help them?" Juice said. His palms were sweating.

"Well then, the SCPD pays the SAMSTAR clubhouse a friendly visit and clears up any misconceptions about your colourful family. You know what that means, don't you?"

"Roosevelt!" Juice said, but he had already hung up.

"Stay available," Quentin said. He motioned to the officer outside. "Escort Mr. Ortiz to the evidence lockup, and give him back his cut and his weed. I don't ever want to see you with a Reaper cut outside of the Glades – or I will take it from you! You're free to go, Juice. But don't go too far. I'd hate to have to visit Jim and SAMSTAR just to look for you."

Laurel could see the terror in Juice's eyes as he shambled out of the room. Someone on the other end of the line had rattled him. Quentin's smug expression further prompted her suspicions.

"You know about the RICO case against the MC too?" Laurel said.

"Only me and my superiors at this point," Quentin said. "I had a really weird phone conversation with the AUSA in Northern Cali the other day."

"Yeah, he's a really weird guy." Laurel said.

"But he's apparently not weird enough to forget about extracting a signed agreement of cooperation from me," Quentin said. "We've gotta keep the circle of those in-the-know very tight. The feds are watching."

"Who was Juice talking to on the other line?" Laurel said. "Whatever was said to him, it really shook him."

Quentin sighed. "You're not going to like it. That's why Potter tasked me with pulling the leverage on Ortiz. He felt you might have some – reservations – about it."

"I don't like the sound of this," Laurel said. "What exactly do you have on Juice?"

Quentin rubbed his face. "This does not leave this room, you understand? Potter provided Roosevelt with information about Ortiz's real father, Michael Howard Cole. You see, his father is black."

Laurel's jaw dropped. "Dad, do you realize what this means? The Sons don't allow blacks to patch in. If the MC ever finds out about this – they'll take his patch away, make him scrape his Reaper ink and boot him out of the club. They could even kill him! We're going to play the race card … just to lock down the RICO case?"

"I know, baby," Quentin said, "but we're all getting a lot of internal heat on this. Your boss wants a conviction, my boss needs a guilty face we can feed to the press hounds and the AUSA is turning all the screws on it. Halloran won't talk about the port killing. If we can't get the MC on that, we have to nail them on something else. The good guys need a victory here. Fast. Juice could be our only way to get it."

"I want to get SAMCRO as much as you do," Laurel said, "but we're playing with someone's life here! It could go sideways, very fast. If the MC finds out and kills Juice, his blood would be on our hands!"

"I don't know what else to say, sweetheart," Quentin said. "As long as SAMCRO is in town, we'll be pressing hard on Ortiz to spill the beans about the Los Diablos slaying. I'm not crazy about it either, but we've got to think big picture here. Bringing down the MC and the Real IRA is worth the price, no matter how dirty the road to get there looks to us now."

When Quentin had left the room, Laurel picked up Juice's mug shot. It was the face of a hardened criminal, not afraid to do time in service to the Reaper. It was a face that Laurel had just seen evaporate into the air when Quentin revealed the leverage he had on Juice. He was a newer member too, so there was a chance that he could turn on the club to save his own skin. With the intel he could provide, they could break every Sons charter from here to the Mexico border and both the D.A.'s office and SCPD would come out of this as winners.

Then why do I feel so uneasy about this whole situation, she thought.

* * *

Jax, Chibs and Bobby arrived at _The Smiling Geisha_ spa in the city's Chocolate District. There was no signage on the storefront indicating it was anything other than a place for manicures and pedicures.

Since they were technically no longer in the Glades, they had left their cuts at the SAMSTAR clubhouse to keep the police off their backs. Only their SAMCRO hoodies identified them as Sons.

Chibs plugged two quarters into a newspaper box and pulled out a copy of the Starling City Record. He read the headline and winced.

"It figures," he said.

"What is it?" Jax said.

"Looks like all latte-sipping pricks who now live in the Chocolate District don't want a One Stop superstore opening up around here. They're afraid it might cause more traffic for their big-ass SUV's."

Jax glanced at a few lines in the article. "It says it could create 300-plus jobs for Glades residents. The locals need this, but Oliver Queen's upper-crust friends don't."

"You know, this hood used to be a really cool place," Chibs said. "Good pubs, artist communes and such. Now, it's all hippy-dippy yoga studios and brand-name boutique shit."

"Boys, we'll have time to debate urban gentrification later," Bobby said. "We've got a meet with Hideki right now."

They wandered into the front door. The spa looked nothing like they expected. It was full of middle-aged Japanese and Korean women getting their nails and pedicures done. One of the ladies glowered at the rough-looking bikers and grumbled something in Korean to her neighbour. Another was reading a glossy Japanese tabloid during her pedicure.

"Fellas, are you sure this is the right place?" Chibs said.

A stout, middle-aged Japanese woman barged out of a back office, brandishing a broom.

"Who are you?" she demanded. "What do you want?"

"I'm sorry, ma'am," Jax said. "We were looking for _The Smiling Geisha_. There were no signs outside."

The woman let loose a string of Japanese expletives, causing many of the clients to chatter among themselves.

"Yeah, I think we're in the wrong place – unless you guys actually want a pedicure!" Bobby said.

They heard footsteps coming down an unseen stairwell. A rear door opened. It was Hideki, still wearing his loud purple suit.

"I didn't think you were going to enter through the front door," Hideki said. He got into a lively discussion in Japanese with the broom-wielding woman.

"This is Rose," Hideki said. "Make no mistake: she's the real boss of this establishment. It's her name on the lease, the licenses and permits. As you can see, it's a legitimate business." He managed to convince her that the Sons were associates of his. She relented and allowed them to go to the rear of the spa.

"Next time, come in through the alleyway entrance," he said.

When they climbed the stairs they entered what seemed to be a waiting room or lounge. Several men – all in suits and ties – waited on plush red chairs or couches. Some were tapping furiously into their Blackberrys and iPhones, while others were skimming through magazines.

In moments, several well-dressed Asian women – all in evening gowns and heels – approached the seated gentlemen and, one by one, they accompanied the men down the hall to a series of rooms.

"Now, this is more like it!" Chibs said.

Bobby grinned with excitement. "I'm soo in the mood for sushi!"

"Go ahead, gentlemen," Hideki said. "Relax and enjoy!" In moments, Chibs and Bobby disappeared to the back with some of the escorts.

"I have some business to attend to but I won't be long," Hideki said. "Will you be joining your men as well?"

Jax showed his engagement ring. "I'm spoken for, sadly." Hideki nodded and retreated to one of the rear offices.

A few more men, also dressed in suits, arrived from the alleyway and settled on the couches. The massage parlour business seemed to be good for the Japanese.

Jax was distracted by a TV monitor in the lounge, which was showing some sort of historical documentary – narrated by a nasally-voiced Englishman:

"… _the Roman legions used the testudo formation during their campaigns to protect their cohort from projectile weapons and shield them from long-distance attacks …_ "

Jax watched, fascinated, as the historical re-enactment showed the Roman cohort cover themselves with their shields as spears, arrows and stones rained upon them.

"A student of history, I see," Hideki said.

"I didn't think PBS would be your go-to programming in the waiting room of a massage parlour," Jax said.

"The clients seem to like it," Hideki said. "All of them are educated professionals. We don't allow just anyone to partake of _The Smiling Geisha_ 's wares. The girls have a safe, clean place to conduct business. We even have dress codes. No jeans – present company excluded."

"Impressive," Jax said. "Who handles protection for you?" Hideki settled in the seat beside him and offered him a sparkling water, which Jax declined.

"When I first arrived in Starling City," Hideki said, "the area was still under the control of the Italians and we paid Don Marco for protection. This connection kept other players at bay and gave us the air of legitimacy needed to make a successful launch. We may even open up a new spa in the Financial District next year."

"The guidos still run protection for you?" Jax said.

"Not since last month. Don Marco has been downsizing certain areas of his operations and running protection in the Chocolate District was becoming a money-losing venture for him. We have an associate that runs his own security firm. It's a temporary fix." He pointed at the uniformed security guard outside the alleyway entrance. "We get the Yamamoto clan discount."

"Jim was saying you're second-in-command up here," Jax said. "You thinking of ever moving up in the samurai ranks?"

Hideki chuckled. "The succession has long been settled. The _oyabun_ , Frankie Yamamoto, has ruled the clan for nearly 30 years. He is my lord and master – and my uncle. His youngest son, Kota, is _wakagashira_. He will lead the clan when his father dies."

"Youngest son?" Jax said. "What happened to the oldest one?"

"The eldest son, Ryo, was groomed to take his father's place. He was also my best friend, I grew up with him. He died two years ago – a rival clan assassinated him in Okinawa."

"I'm sorry, bro," Jax said. "Do you have any family here?"

Hideki's mood brightened. "My wife and daughter. Jenny will be seven next month. She has autism. Everything I do here is for her, so I can afford to get her the best care and education. I serve the Yamamoto clan, but my family is my top priority." He looked at Jax's engagement ring. "Engaged for long?"

"Only a couple of weeks," Jax said. "My old lady is a surgeon in Charming. We've got two boys already: Abel and Thomas. Family is my top priority too."

"You hang on to that, Mr. Teller," Hideki said, with a hint of sadness. "Without family, we have nothing. Nothing at all."

A loud crash of broken glass and a woman's scream interrupted their conversation. A young Japanese woman in a bathrobe bolted out of one of the rooms, blood streaming from a gash in her forehead. A large, muscled Japanese man stormed after her.

He tried to grab her arm, but Jax had already stepped in his path.

"It's over, asshole," Jax said. "Your rub-and-tug party is over. Get your shit and get out!"

"I will break every bone in your little white trash body," the man said in heavily-accented English. He noticed the engagement ring on Jax's hand. "Then, I will have my way with your wife."

Jax punched him in the jaw. The Japanese man stood his ground and flung Jax onto a coffee table, breaking it. Clients and escorts scattered in panic as the two men brawled on the floor among the debris. Chibs and Bobby – both in various stages of undress – lunged to Jax's defence. Two security guards climbed the staircase and pulled out their guns.

Hideki grappled with the Japanese man. "You're drunk! This is my place of business! Your behaviour of late brings dishonour to your father. To your clan! Next time, not even your name will protect you from me. Get out! " The Japanese man scowled, but said nothing. He picked up his jacket from the floor, pushed his way past the guards and bounded down the stairs to the street below.

Chibs and Bobby struggled to restrain Jax. "Who the hell was that guy?" Bobby asked.

"That," Hideki said, as he consoled the injured escort, "is Kota Yamamoto: first lieutenant and heir to the Yamamoto clan."

"Oh my God," Jax said. He turned to Hideki. "Sorry, bro. I had no idea. He left me with no choice!"

"Kota is a loose cannon," Hideki said. "He's reckless, violent and unstable. He may be the heir in name, but he is not universally loved in my organization. The oyabun will hear of his actions here. He will need to do penance to save face. As far as I'm concerned you were protecting a Yamamoto business … and my personal honour. For that you have my gratitude. Still, it would be best if you made yourselves scarce, just in case the neighbours call the police. We'll talk later."

"Jesus," Chibs cursed, as they quickly descended the steps to the alleyway. "Jackie boy, you just picked a fight with the clan's shogun-in-waiting. Not sure how this'll blowback on the Sons in the Glades."

Jax held a bloodied cloth to his lip. "If we get in good with boss man Frankie, it won't matter. I'm thinkin' we can do business with Hideki too. The sushis may be lookin' for protection help. Let's just hope Frankie lives to be 100 years old."

As their Harleys roared out of the spa's parking lot, Jax contemplated the real possibility that this incident might scare the Japanese off from making any deals with the MC.

If it does go south, Jax thought, making nice with the Chinese would be more important than ever.

 _Or we're all dead men._


	9. Episode 9

**_"Pandora's Box"_**

Felicity Smoak and Thea Queen strolled down the sidewalk, just outside Glades Memorial's new Anna Loring Institute for Pediatric Sciences. Named after tech guru Ray Palmer's deceased fiancée, the institute's soaring steel-and-glass tower was the latest example of Starling City's urban renewal projects. It was a sunny spring day, warmer than usual.

"This break is just what I needed," Thea said as she savoured her double scoop of strawberry ice cream.

"Hmmph?" Felicity said, as she enjoyed a slurp of her own double scoop of chocolate ice cream.

"I've been multi-tasking like crazy," Thea said. "The Verdant is handling catering for the big medical conference this weekend." She noticed that Felicity was trying to keep the ice cream from dripping onto her office attire.

"Maybe I should have picked the milkshake instead," Felicity said. She managed to finish off the first scoop without getting a single chocolate smudge on her blouse. "Yeah, Ray was telling me about the conference. He's also hoping to poach some of the specialists and experts attending from all over the West Coast."

Someone bolted through the crowd and seized Felicity's purse, knocking Felicity to the ground. This time, most of her ice cream landed on her blouse.

"Son of a –" Felicity hissed. "I have a meeting in, like, an hour!" Thea was already chasing after the purse-snatcher.

At the other end of the street, Tara Knowles exited her SUV. Burly SAMCRO prospect Phil parked his Harley beside it. They were still in the Glades, so Phil was allowed to wear his Reaper cut in public. The MC tasked him to protect Tara and despite her initial protests, she relented to Jax's request that she bring Phil with her to Starling City.

"I'll be here all afternoon at the medical conference," Tara said. "Maybe you can wait in the cafeteria until then. The entire neighbourhood is still spooked by what went down at the port. The locals are still skittish about the MC. We can't get so much as a parking ticket here, understand?"

"That's what Chibs was saying," Phil said. "I'll be in the cafeteria if you need ... me?" He was distracted by a scruffy-looking man sprinting towards them, carrying a purse. A young woman was chasing after him.

As the man approached, intent on barreling through whoever stood in his way, Tara swung her purse into the man's face. As the thief fell, she promptly kicked him in the groin. He doubled over, but he managed to scamper into the busy noon-time crowd before Phil could grab him.

Thea ran up to them, followed by Felicity who was still trying to dab away some of the chocolate from her blouse.

"Nice work, miss," Thea said. Tara handed Felicity's purse over to her.

"Thanks," Felicity said. She immediately noticed the Reaper cut on Tara's companion, but said nothing. "I'd offer to buy you a coffee, but I've got a full scoop of Chocolate Velvet on my blouse. I've got to change. I've got a meeting to get to."

"Dr. Tara Knowles," Tara said, extending her hand. "Nice to meet you."

"Felicity Smoak," Felicity said, taking her hand. "Thea is a friend of mine. She's the girl who steered the thief into the general direction of your bad-ass purse." Tara's purse was leather with fringes and some metal studs. It was professional-looking, but with a hint of take-no-prisoners-Viking-queen to it.

Thea nodded towards the institute's impressive building. "If you're here for the conference, Dr. Knowles, I could take you to the main hall. I think they're getting started at 12:30."

"That would be great," Tara said. She noticed that Phil was admiring both Thea and Felicity. Even she had to admit that the young women were both really cute.

"Phil!" Tara said, in her 'MC old lady' voice that demanded obedience. "Go to the cafeteria - now. Get yourself something to eat. Meet me in the lobby at 5 pm."

"Yes, ma'am," Phil said. He smiled at Thea and Felicity and hurried into Glades Memorial.

Felicity watched as Thea and Tara climbed the steps to the institute's main entrance. The name Tara Knowles rang a bell in her mind. The thought faded momentarily as she noticed the contents of her purse sprawled across most of the sidewalk behind her.

"Well, that's just great," Felicity frowned. Her hands were sticky with ice cream, her blouse was ruined and now she had to collect her belongings from the dirty pavement. There were also a couple of business letters she had planned to mail over the lunch hour.

When she arrived at Palmer Tech, she breathed a sigh of relief. She had a spare blouse from the dry cleaners. Even though her presence wasn't required at the budget meeting, she felt it would be in her best interest to know more about the workings of Ray's company.

The company which used to belong to Oliver Queen, Felicity thought. Never mind that I'm currently dating Ray too.

She opened up her purse to retrieve the work-related letters, intending to mail them. What she discovered was more than she had bargained for.

She found three additional letters that didn't belong to her. The name listed on the front was Maureen Ashby and the address listed was Ashby's Provisions, Belfast, Northern Ireland. They were already opened. Could these belong to Tara Knowles? Could they have fallen out of her purse when the doctor sacked the purse-snatcher?

Then she remembered where she had heard the doctor's name. In the MC files that Laurel had given to Team Arrow, Tara Knowles was listed as an inner circle member of SAMCRO. She was a well-respected doctor in Charming – and the current girlfriend of the MC's VP, Jax Teller! Her hefty bodyguard in the Reaper cut confirmed the MC link.

She reasoned that there was no way of knowing who owned these letters if she didn't at least look at them. "Now I know how Pandora felt," Felicity said.

The letters were hand-written. _"My dearest Mo,"_ the first letter began.

The moment she began to read the letters, she knew that she was reading something forbidden. Only after reading several paragraphs did she realize who the author of the letters was: John Teller, the founder of the Sons of Anarchy MC. He had loved another woman in Belfast by the name of Maureen. He fathered a daughter with her.

A few lines near the end of the letter caught her attention. They were describing some long-ago Mexican gang ambush in northern California:

"… _the Mayans came upon us like flies to carrion. One moment, I had a dozen patches guarding my flank. In the next moment, they had disappeared like morning mist. The royal guard has finally forsaken their king. They left me there to die. Clay claimed that it was the fog of war, but I know this was a lie. Only luck spared my life. The MC is firmly in Morrow's camp now. They embrace the new direction he is leading them, entrenched with guns and the IRA, even though I know for certain that it is the path to ruin and doom for us all. No one listens to me any more. I fear death, they welcome it."_

" _All I know for certain is that I no longer have the means to change their minds, to save this club. After last night, I have no doubt that Clay Morrow means to kill me…"_

Felicity looked up at the wall clock. The budget meeting was over half an hour ago, but it was of little concern at this moment. She was holding potentially volatile information - not only for the MC, but for the whole Glades. If the MC ever got wind of proof that Clay had a hand in killing the founding member of SAMCRO, they could ignite an underworld powder keg that could explode across the entire city and beyond.

What to do with the letters was now the first dilemma she needed to overcome.

That, she thought, and accepting the possibility that my possession of them and their secrets also means I could soon be on SAMCRO's hit list too.

She pressed the elevator button going down to the parking garage, realizing that even reading the letters could be a suicidal act on her part.

She frowned. "Oh. Crap."

* * *

Felicity had no way of knowing that, at the same moment, Tara just excused herself from an interesting presentation by Ray Palmer on the potential advancements in biotechnology in the field of pediatric medicine.

Tara realized that the purse she had taken with her still contained three of the secret love letters John Teller had sent to his Irish lover Maureen Ashby. Maureen packed a stack of letters in Jax's gear when the MC was in Belfast, hoping the son would learn about his father. Tara found them first and read all of them.

They were potentially deadly letters that outlined John's suspicions about Clay, his doubts about the violent course the MC was on and his own regrets about betraying his wife and leaving his son trapped within this cycle of chaos.

When she couldn't find them, she raced to the women's restroom, locked herself in the room and emptied the contents of her purse onto the sink counter. There were no letters. Where could they have gone?

Then she remembered the purse snatcher she had clobbered with her own purse, the quirky bespectacled blonde in a ponytail with a scoop of Chocolate Velvet all over her blouse, and a sidewalk littered with the contents of the girl's purse. Could the letters have fallen out of my purse during the scuffle? Could that nerdy blonde office chick have picked up the letters by mistake?

Could she be sipping a frappuccino in her little office cubicle, reading John Teller's letters and gossiping about JT's regrets and fears with the other girls at work - right now?

"That duplicitous bitch!" Tara said, angrily slamming her hand against the wall. As she exited the restroom, Ray's presentation had just ended and he was greeting attendees at the reception table.

"Dr. Knowles!" Ray exclaimed. "I was hoping I could pick your brain about all things neonatal. Palmer Tech is about to embark on some promising new projects. I should add that there's a pretty sweet spread of sandwiches and desserts in the foyer …"

"My apologies, Mr. Palmer," Tara said, as she quickly regained her composure. "I have some pressing business this afternoon." She pulled out one of her St. Thomas Hospital business cards. "I would like to hear more about your new institute's work. Actually, I would like to explore any possible career opportunities too. My cell number's on the card. I'm staying at the Hyatt Regency in the Chocolate District if you need to leave any messages."

"Will do!" Ray said as he gave her his own business card. "I'll be at the conference this whole weekend, but if you can't find me, feel free to leave a message with my executive assistant. Her number's on the front. She'll manage to reach me somehow."

When she was outside the institute doors, she dialed her cell phone – not her professional smartphone, but her untraceable SAMCRO burner one.

"Phil? It's Tara. We have a change of plans. Remember that ponytailed blonde you were ogling earlier today, the chick whose purse I rescued? Yeah, Felicity Smoak. I want a twenty on her by this evening. I want to know who she knows, where she goes, what coffee she drinks. Everything."

The thought of a total stranger reading about the dark secrets of the Teller family – _her_ family now – and the uncomfortable truths about SAMCRO made her worried. But Gemma taught her well. If SAMCRO was a kingdom under siege, Tara was its princess – its queen-to-be. And she would defend her household as vigorously as her fiancé Jax would. She intended to bury the destructive secrets those letters represented and she wasn't about to let some perky broad from Starling City unearth its deadly truths. Her worry turned into a focused anger, something she knew would see her through.

 _The clarity of rage_. Jax had it, Gemma had it, and now she adopted it for herself. It was a tool for survival. It was the SAMCRO way.

Tara thought of Felicity, covered in chocolate ice cream, and figured the poor girl was probably unaware that she had just stepped into a messy pile of shit by picking up those letters. She didn't want to consider the possibility that she read the letters too.

If Felicity did read them, then God help her.

"Little Miss Smoak just made a very big mistake," Tara said. She checked the Thirty-Eight in her purse.

It was loaded.

 **To be continued ...**


	10. Episode 10

" _ **Mirage"**_

Oliver, masked as the Arrow, perched atop the ledge of a three-storey building across from the Soothing Hands Spa in the Little Shanghai district of Chinatown. There were at least half a dozen similar "holistic spas" in this area, plastered with window-sized posters of pretty Asian girls – all were unlicensed fronts for prostitution. A grungy Chinese take-out dive and a pair of adult video stores added to the street's unsavoury flavour. It was well past midnight.

He wanted to go alone, but the moment Laurel heard that he was gathering intel on Three Dragons activity, she suited up and nothing he could say would convince her otherwise.

"You're still new at this," Oliver said. "You still need more training."

"We kept the city in one piece when you were gone," Laurel replied. "I'm never going to get any experience if you keep me locked up in the cave every time you go out on the streets. You might want to sing from a different songbook, the tune is starting to get old."

Oliver grimaced. He still didn't want Laurel to be out in the Glades as Black Canary, but he had to admit that even he was concerned about going out alone at a time when the ground beneath the Glades' underworld was shifting. Things were about to jump off in the Glades, he could feel it.

Oliver had pieced together that the portlands shooting involved SAMSTAR, the local Russian mafia and the Yakuza. The heroin trade had picked up since the Yamamoto clan's arrival six months ago, and he was certain that the dustup at the port was connected. What was puzzling to him was that the h-trade was the domain of the Chinese triads.

Tonight's excursion, he hoped, would answer a few of these questions.

A gut-wrenching sob echoed through the hood. Below, a heavily-tattooed triad gangster screamed and cursed loudly in Cantonese at a waif-like girl, who was dressed in only a flimsy summer dress. The gangster smacked her face with such force that the girl fell onto the sidewalk. He shoved her violently back into the spa.

Laurel was about to descend the fire escape when Oliver grabbed her arm.

"Hey!" Laurel said. "We can't let that jerk smack her around!"

"We're here for information tonight," Oliver said. "Not to throw down against the entire triad on their home turf." He took a closer look at the gangster. His head was shaven bald and had only a few stubbly whiskers on his chin. He had tattoos everywhere – his hands, arms and even up to his neck.

"He's Reggie Li," Oliver said. "He goes by the name of Rocky on the streets, because he likes to beat the women in his employ. A violent thug, with connections to the Three Dragons triad. He started out by selling pirated DVD's from Hong Kong, but he's moved up to enforcer status in their organization. These spas sprang up here last year. Some of the girls they use are runaways, but they've been expanding lately. They can't all be street kids."

Laurel's gut was telling her that none of this fit the Three Dragons' m.o. She read the reports: the triad has been scaling back their drug operations over the past year and making nice with city officials. Expanding illegal brothels and bumping up against Shanghai Boys gang turf would appear to go against that.

"Rocky will tell us exactly what we want to know," Oliver said. "Follow my lead."

They watched as Rocky strolled down the street, chomping loudly on a bag of Doritos. The gangster turned a corner into an alleyway, and without warning Oliver let loose an arrow and impaled Rocky's right arm against a wooden door frame. Oliver was already in the gangster's face and Laurel had to leap off the fire escape to catch up to him.

"You're a creature of habit, Reggie Li," Oliver said in his harsh, Arrow voice. "You go to the spa to get laid every Thursday night, and then scurry off to this alleyway to take a leak. Now, you and I are going to have a friendly conversation about the Three Dragons and the h-trade in the Glades."

Rocky glanced at Laurel and turned to Oliver. "This your little girlfriend, _gwai lo_? Maybe she could work in one of my spas. I'll show her a good time too."

Oliver twisted the arrow in Rocky's arm, causing him to wince in agony. "You and your pals have been pushing heroin throughout the Glades in large quantities lately. Why?"

"Blow me," Rocky smirked. Arrow kneed him in the stomach and he bowled over in pain.

"The Sons MC, the Russians and the Yakuza had a meet at the port the other night," Oliver said. "An innocent man was gunned down. You're going to tell me what the h-trade has got to do with it." Rocky glowered at him in defiance.

"Check his ink," Laurel said, growing impatient with the interrogation. Oliver yanked the arrow from Rocky's arm and the alley rang with the gangster's howls. He manhandled Rocky and checked the tattoos on his arms, back and neck.

"There!" Oliver pointed at the Cantonese lettering on Rocky's neck. "It says the number three in Cantonese. And he's got a three-headed dragon on his forearm."

Everything indicated that he was a Three Dragons enforcer, but none of it added up to Laurel. The Three Dragons were pulling _out_ of the drug trade, not ramping it up. Her father, Captain Lance, had mentioned that there were rumblings of discord within the triad a few months ago. The leadership remained solid, but some of the underbosses were less than pleased with the triad's move away from drugs and prostitution. Was there more to this than a turf war?

As she studied Rocky's neck tattoo, she noticed a dark blotch behind one of his earlobes. She yanked it and showed it to Oliver.

"Two lotus flowers," Laurel said. "He's a Lotus Two." The Lotus Twos were a small local street gang that was long involved in the drug and prostitution business, but until recently they only controlled a few blocks in Little Shanghai.

While the Three Dragons ruled by cunning, the Lotus Twos ran their turf through fear and violence. Now they controlled much of this hood and were threatening to engulf territory from rival gangs. They were rapidly becoming an underworld power in their own right.

Too rapidly, Laurel thought. They were getting too big, too fast. Why? How?

Maybe it was a power play by the Three Dragons, as they had no rivals in Chinatown and wanted to shore up their territory before the Yakuza swept in. In the underworld, the triad was long acknowledged as the number two organization behind the Bertinelli mob. Some of her colleagues in the D.A.'s office even speculated that the mafia had lost ground and the Three Dragons were now the dominant criminal organization in Starling City.

These were questions well above a mere triad enforcer's pay grade.

Oliver sighed. "The Lotus Twos are just a puppet gang for the triad. They do the dirty work: pimping, dealing, street muscle. The Three Dragons' bosses are calling the shots here … isn't that right, Rocky?" Oliver brandished a new arrow menacingly. Rocky's face paled with fear.

"Nothing happens in Chinatown without Jimmy Fong's say-so," Rocky blurted. "We answer to him. We always have. Heroin is big money. He don't wanna lose the h-trade to the Yakuza."

"Good boy," Oliver said, petting Rocky's face mockingly. He turned to Laurel. "You want to ask him anything, Black Canary?"

Laurel kicked Rocky in the groin. The gangster moaned and passed out.

Oliver raised an eyebrow at Laurel.

Laurel grinned. "Well, he did say he wanted a good time."

They ran up the fire escape and disappeared into the night. They failed to notice a black van, parked outside the take-out spot.

Rocky came to his senses. The arrow wound hurt like hell and he bent over, still recovering from Black Canary's kick to his groin. He tried to limp back to the main street. He didn't even see the punch Happy had thrown at his jaw.

Hours later, he woke up in a dark and deserted rural field far away from the city. A black van and a Harley were parked a few yards away. He was now face to face with a pair of SAMCRO bikers. He spotted the vice president's flash on one of their cuts and he blanched.

"Well it looks like Robin Hood and his leather-n-lace Marian got what they wanted from you, eh, Rocky?" Jax said. "Guess what – SAMCRO wants more from you! A lot more." Rocky looked at a filthy tarp on the ground, covered with a variety of tools: blades, pincers, metal rods and screwdrivers.

"You're going to tell my friend over here – exactly – what went down at the port between the Russians and our new samurai friends," Jax said. "A little crow told me you and your little buddies were there too that night, when a security guard was capped. You saw what went down. Don't leave anything out, or Happy over here is going to turn your insides out. He's very good at what he does … and he has all night."

"Get what you can out of him," Jax mumbled in Happy's ear. "We need some answers and we're running out of time." He thought of Rocky beating the crap out of that poor girl outside Soothing Hands Spa. "Then let him bleed out. You know what to do with the body."

Jax strolled towards his Harley and rumbled out of the field, his thoughts already drifting to this weekend's Glades Memorial bike rally. Rocky's fate was already a fading memory.

Happy said nothing, but a sadistic grin slowly enveloped his face.

Reggie "Rocky" Li had lied to the Arrow about the Three Dragons, about triad boss Jimmy Fong, about all of it.

He knew in this moment that he had run out of lies.

* * *

In the morning, Roy walked down the street towards Jim's Auto Works, the legitimate business of SAMSTAR's president Jim McIntyre. The spare parts for his Harley were ready for pickup. He was about to turn a corner when he spotted an unmarked SCPD sedan in front of the garage.

"Piss off!" Chibs said to Quentin. "Juice ain't goin' anywhere."

"Hey, don't blame me," Quentin said. "His parole officer wants a piss test."

"This is bullshit!" Juice exclaimed.

"You should go," Opie said, "if only to keep him out of our hair. Hey, we got a charity bike rally to prepare for, Captain Lance."

"I haven't forgotten," Quentin said. "The SCPD will be there to show support. In force. Follow me back to the precinct, Ortiz." Roy warily walked towards them.

"What the hell you lookin' at, preppy?" Juice said to Roy, scowling. Opie rolled his eyes. "Just go, Juice."

Roy watched the sedan and Juice's Harley pull away from the garage.

Opie clapped Roy's shoulder. "Don't worry about it. It's cop shit. You lookin' for Jax?"

"Yeah, he was saying the spare parts for my Harley project were ready." Roy noticed that Opie was wearing the overalls of an Auto Works mechanic and, besides Juice, none of SAMCRO's members were wearing cuts. A stack of steel plates were leaning against the wall and Roy assumed it was for auto body repairs.

"Jax's isn't here yet," Opie said. "His old lady's in town for some medical conference." He looked around the garage and spotted a box with Roy's name scribbled on it.

"How much I owe you guys?" Roy said.

"Nah, it's on the house," Opie said. "Jax says so. Let us know if you need more parts." Opie went to an office drawer and pulled out a brown paper bag. "Your vodka, courtesy of the Russians. If you need help polishing it off, I'm sure you can find more than a few volunteers here … isn't that right, Bobby?"

Bobby, stuffing his mouth full of a burrito, shrugged. "Why are you lookin' at me?"

The roar of a Harley distracted them, as it rolled into the garage. Jax leaped off his bike and shook Roy's hand.

"I see you got the parts," he said. "You need anything more, just let us know. You're coming to the bike rally this weekend, right?"

"I wouldn't miss it for the world," Roy said, genuinely pleased that SAMCRO was going to be there to continue John Teller's charitable legacy in the Glades.

Jax smiled. "I've still got some loose ends to tie up for the rally, so I guess I'll see you on Saturday."

When Roy walked away, Opie pulled Jax aside.

"You're already running late, Jax," he said. "Jim is waiting at the Golden Pearl, with the Chinese."

"Right," Jax said. He spotted Bobby, gorging himself on corn chips. "Bobby Elvis, you're with me. Time to meet the Glades' Oriental godfather. The Golden Pearl is in the Chocolate District."

"The Chocolate District?" Bobby scoffed. "Do I need to put on khakis and a henley, or something?"

Jax called Bobby over. "Happy's back from Northern Cali. I want you with me, 'cause we need to sort out some stuff with Jimmy Fong and the Chinese. I just found out that there were some wonton gangbangers at that meet in the port, when the guard was killed."

"Shit," Bobby said. "The Chinese were there too? Why? How'd you find out?"

"It's best you didn't know," Jax said. "Our job today is to make damn sure the Sons don't land in the middle of an Asian turf war over heroin. And, if we're lucky, we land on the winning side."

"Drugs, eh," Bobby said. His mood soured at the mention of heroin. He had voted against the Galindo muling deal and was convinced it was the wrong direction for the club. "As if we don't have enough problems keeping the Mexican cartel happy!"

"Just get on your bike, Jabba," Jax said. "We're late enough as it is! You can stuff your face full of dim sum there. The Golden Pearl is a restaurant."

Opie ran up to Jax. "Oh, by the way, that special project you had us working on? We're almost done. We just need to do some welding. We'll be done by tonight."

"That's good," Jax said. "The Arrow got the drop on us last time. It won't happen again." The roar of the Harleys drowned out Opie's reply.

If what Happy had learned from the triad gangbanger was true, then this meeting with the head of the Three Dragons triad could set the tone for the club's underworld relationships in the Glades for the next few years. The MC - wrapped under the protective wing of the most powerful triad in the Pacific northwest - would be the best result.

If they didn't play their cards well in the next few days, SAMCRO would risk being on the losing end of a protracted heroin war between the triad and the Yakuza. The Chinese were entrenched here – but the Japanese were immensely wealthy and connected.

It wouldn't matter what happens with Galindo and the Irish then. All of Jax's plans for the MC, for Tara and their boys would go up in smoke.

If things go really badly, this meet could cost the Sons of Anarchy everything.

They could be crucified.


	11. Episode 11

_**"To Trust in Actions, Not Words"**_

Juice left the men's washroom in the SCPD downtown precinct with a small cylindrical bottle. He was surprised that his parole officer actually wanted him to take a piss test this time. He was on federal release and tests like these ensured that he lived up to his bail conditions.

About a dozen heavily-armed SWAT tactical officers marched past him. He felt tense as a few of them glanced at him before moving on.

He was expecting to see Capt. Lance waiting for him, but instead it was the pretty assistant district attorney Laurel Lance waiting outside.

Laurel motioned to a uniformed officer. "Take Ortiz' urine sample down to the lab for processing. I'll follow up with his p.o."

"Here to remind me about my family tree again?" Juice said, scowling. He didn't trust lawyers.

"No," Laurel said. "My father had to answer a call. Some dust-up in the Latino district this afternoon. The Shanghai Boys are bumping up against Los Diablos territory again. We can't have the local street punks making headlines during the big charity bike rally this weekend."

Juice was surprised. "How the hell do you know about the Glades bike rally?"

"I've done legal aid work in the Glades and I've volunteered at the rally for a few years," Laurel said. "I'll be there again this weekend. It's all about helping the kids, right? But I guess I don't need to tell you and the MC that – it's the whole reason you're all up here, instead of down in NorCal."

"Look, I'm not sure what you're getting at here," Juice said.

"The Sons of Anarchy Motorcycle Club is the main arms dealer for the criminal underworld in this city," Laurel began. "The Irish Kings are your main supplier. The bigger players tolerate the MC – even respect you – because the club deals with all sides. But I don't need to tell you the balance is changing, rapidly. I'm afraid that the Reaper might not be able to stay neutral this time."

"Things were running smoothly in this town," Juice said, "until the Arrow vigilante showed up! He upset the balance. Now, everyone is freaking out." He stopped talking, uncertain if he had already said too much.

"You can relax, Juice," Laurel said. "We're off the record. Maybe the Arrow's tactics aren't always above board, but when the Glades loses one of its own – an innocent security guard - to gang violence, this puts the heat on everyone: the mob, the triad, the street gangs, the politicians, the cops, the Arrow. Everyone."

Juice thought of the dead security guard at the port. And his widow. Both were from the Glades too. The MC was supposed to look out for the Glades and the Reaper had failed them that night.

"The MC had nothing to do with the port killing!" he protested.

"I believe you," Laurel said. "Did you know that the guard's widow is pregnant? Her baby is going to grow up without a father. I'm not out to pin this on the MC. Or even the Russians at the port, though God knows they probably saw what went down. Someone knows who is responsible. My father and the hawks in the force want to go into the Glades, with guns blazing. But all that's going to do is drive the gangbangers underground, and we'll never get justice."

"What happened at the port – that's wrong," Juice said. "SAMSTAR had nothing to do with it. That's all I know, I swear."

"Well, someone knows," Laurel said. "And my gut tells me the MC is the only one who can find out who it is. Just point me in the right direction, and maybe I can keep the Reaper clear of the fallout."

"Are you thinking it was the Yakuza? Or the Chinese?" Juice said. He suspected one of these groups was responsible for killing that security guard. At this point, the MC knew about as much as the authorities.

"We have our suspicions," Laurel said, revealing nothing. "The Glades look up to the Sons of Anarchy. John Teller helped to get the charity bike rally off and running. The children's hospital was the result. That faith was shaken at the port. Give that poor widow some peace of mind that her husband's killer will be brought to justice. Help us out and we can help the MC out. And you can help yourself too."

"I help you – or you'll tell the MC that my father is black," Juice said. "That's no choice."

"It's not like that at all," Laurel insisted. "My boss and my father's boss may need to play the race card with you," Laurel said, "and - officially - I have to roll with it. This doesn't mean I have to like it. It's wrong. And my father, the police chief and the District Attorney shouldn't have to wade in the muck in the name of justice. Playing the race card? Crap like that taints us all and makes a mockery of the justice we're trying to uphold."

Laurel checked her watch. "I have to be in court soon. Just think about what I said, okay?"

Juice was puzzled. Why is a lawyer being nice to him? "Why should you give a shit about some outlaw biker?"

"Because I'm worried that this outlaw biker may be running out of friends," Laurel said over her shoulder. "He's getting a raw deal, and I may be the only friend he can trust in this town."

Juice watched as Laurel exited the precinct. There were dozens of cops and civilian employees around him, but he couldn't lose the growing feeling of isolation in the pit of his stomach. The MC was his family, yet he couldn't tell any of them about his situation.

Juice sighed as he slowly walked towards his bike in the parking lot. Ms. Lance was right. He could trust no one, not even his brothers in the MC.

The day Eli Roosevelt revealed that he knew about his real father had changed everything. Juice wished he had never heard the name Michael Howard Cole.

This was a dilemma only he could solve. He was truly alone.

* * *

Jax and Bobby arrived at The Golden Pearl, a popular Chinese buffet in a swanky part of new Chinatown. The hood had been cleaned up over the past few years. Gone were the grimy storefronts and crime. These had been replaced with bright new shops – retail feed for the new and well-heeled residents of the Chocolate District. All of this was due to Jimmy Fong, head boss of the Three Dragons triad. (And - if emerging news reports were true – the unacknowledged kingpin of Starling City's underworld).

"We need to get the Chinese on-side with the MC," Bobby insisted. "If our sushi alliance falls through, we are gonna need our wonton big brothers backing us. SAMSTAR doesn't have a prayer if both the Chinese and Japanese crews turn on them."

"Look, I know what I need to do," Jax said, "we keep Fong aligned with SAMCRO or at least Swiss-neutral."

"Jimmy Fong knew your old man," Bobby said. "There's history between the MC and the triads. They've bought guns from us for years too. Maybe if we –" The enticing aroma of chow mein and BBQ duck wafted around them as they entered the opulent dining hall. Framed prints of feudal China decorated the walls. Servers in black uniforms buzzed around patrons. Hundreds of people were eating at tables or sorting through the buffet counters, piled high with dumplings, rolls and noodles.

"Look at that buffet," Bobby said, his stomach grumbling. "This is heaven."

Jax sighed. "Three Dragons first - food later." He told the hostess something and in moments one of Fong's well-dressed associates ushered them into a private dining hall. It was empty except for a few people.

Jax thought one of Fong's triad enforcers was putting on a martial arts display with another associate, but he was wrong.

The "sparring" partner wasn't fighting back at all and his face was bleeding profusely. The enforcer punched, jabbed and chopped until his victim slumped on the floor. Jax caught a glance of gang ink on the victim's arm.

A wiry, elderly man with close-cropped silver hair was seated atop the dais and barely watched the performance. He clapped twice and two associates collected the unconscious body and dragged it out of the hall.

"You're late, Mr. Teller," Jimmy said, as he finished his noodle entrée.

"My apologies," Jax said. "I was caught up in club business and –"

"You've been in town two whole days," Fong said, "and you've already found time to meet with both the Russians at the port and the Yakuza. I've been a loyal customer of SAMSTAR for years – have we not earned the MC's affection by now?"

"I take it you heard about the dust-up at the port," Jax said.

"Our regrets for our tardiness," Bobby interjected. "The Arrow threw everybody off their game this week. It won't happen again. Your organization is SAMCRO's number one priority in town."

"And - your number one business partner this side of the Northern California-Oregon border." Fong said sternly. "Yet Mr. Morrow hasn't seen it fit to pay me a visit. He came to my nephew's funeral, which I appreciated, but that was years ago. The Three Dragons have been a part of this city since the railroad arrived here more than a century ago. We are as American as apple pie and baseball. All I ask is that I am extended the same level of courtesy you freely give to the mafia and the Irish. Your late father understood this. With co-operation comes trust."

An associate approached Fong and whispered something in his ear. Fong nodded and dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

"Great, another history lesson," Jax muttered under his breath.

"Play it cool, Jax," Bobby said. "Jimmy Fong was a friend of J.T."

Fong looked sternly at them for a moment – and burst into laughter. Jax was puzzled, but Bobby merely smiled.

"Now this is the Jimmy Fong I know," Bobby said. During his trips up north over the years, Bobby had been a frequent visitor and customer of Fong's restaurants.

"I'm not going to send you to detention hall, Mr. Teller," Fong chuckled. "Quit squirming and come up to my table. Have a seat. Eat, please." Fong barked an order in Mandarin and several servers arrived with trays of dumplings, noodles, rice and egg rolls. They placed a BBQ duck in front of Bobby, who immediately carved a slice of meat.

Jax settled beside Fong and piled several dumplings onto his plates.

"I heard about your altercation with the Arrow," Fong said. "This vigilante has upset the natural order of things in this city. The mafia and I have kept things in balance for decades, but this man has taken it upon himself to disrupt the peace in the Glades. He's making everyone from the mafia to the local street punks very concerned. He's bad for business, and bad for this city."

"I know," Jax said. "But I think we have a more pressing problem today. Word on the street is that another player wants to cut into the heroin trade."

"I still control the h-trade in this town," Fong said, "and if anyone wants to cut into my business, it will be one of my choosing. Anyone who thinks otherwise will pay dearly."

"Understood," Jax said, "but you might want to pass along that message to your street crews." Jax glanced at the bloodied spot on the floor below. "Maybe that kung-fu display had something to do with it."

Fong frowned. "You're far too perceptive for a mere biker. I should have expected no less from John Teller's son. I can see now how you rose to your rank as the MC's vice president."

He paused to carefully wipe his mouth with a napkin and continued. "Some of my crews have been reluctant to give up the businesses I must now distance myself from. It's no secret I've been moving towards a more legitimate direction. Real estate and technology are my interests now. That messy interlude earlier was indeed a message that, even on the street, my crews have to be on the same page. I will need loyal soldiers … if or when the Japanese or any other rival intrudes into my territory. I also know all about the Yamamoto clan and the MC's growing relationship with the Yakuza."

There's the rub, Jax thought.

"The MC's partnership with the Yakuza is strictly a business deal," Jax insisted. "We're not taking sides in the Glades. We sell guns to all crews. We have no horse in this race. You and the mafia are the top dogs and we're cool with that. It sorta makes us the honest brokers in all this."

"Yes it does," Fong observed. "Or, it makes you the potential king-makers. You control the firearms trade in the city. The Japanese would make wealthy and politically connected allies for anyone willing to cut them the right deal. Including SAMCRO. My closest friends share in my prosperity – but my enemies regret the day they cross me. And I always win."

The Three Dragons had strong ties in the community, an army of associates here and overseas, city and state officials in their pockets, law enforcement contacts and deep pockets. And with the growing aura of legitimacy around Fong, he had the ways and means to cripple and destroy any one of his underworld rivals on a whim. Only the Italian mob had the strength and clout to check Fong's power in the streets and Jax wasn't sure if this was still the case.

Jax had to acknowledge that Mr. Fong was the most powerful man in this city, let alone in this room. "I can clearly see how you've risen to your status as the number two underworld boss in Starling City, sir."

Fong picked up a dumpling with his chopsticks. "It is _respect_ , respect alone, that has won me my status. Fear? Violence? Greed? These are but tools. Respect is the endgame. Make it yours, Mr. Teller, and you'll go far. And for the record, I am the number one kingpin in town, though the Italians may dispute this. The Bertinellis have no lack of successors; they produce more dons than a Catholic cat in heat! Just don't tell that to Marco Bertinelli. He's a good man, but he has a fragile ego."

Jax looked at the bloody stain on the floor again. He knew that some of Fong's puppet gangs were taking on side trade that the Three Dragons boss knew little about. Either Jimmy Fong was playing him – a real possibility – or there was an external threat trying to stir up trouble for the Chinese. He had theories of his own about this, but he chose not to share them with a man who may yet declare war on the club.

Fong counted his old man as a confidant and friend in the past… but did this include Jax and the MC in the present?

Bobby belched and looked around for take-out containers. "We have got to bring some food back with us," he said. "The duck is superb!"

"Take as much as you can carry, Mr. Munson," Fong said. "Consider it a token of goodwill. I only desire a long and mutually beneficial friendship with the Reaper."

"I've got some last minute details to deal with for the Glades bike rally this weekend," Jax said as he shook Fong's hand. "Maybe I can help you with our hooded outlaw problem too. I'll keep you posted. We'll talk again, Mr. Fong. I promise."

"We will," Fong said. "I will always extend my friendship to those who show me respect in return. Remind Clay Morrow that the Three Dragons triad is the best friend the MC could ever have in the Glades."

And its worst enemy – if the Reaper dares to cross me, he thought. _And I always win_. _Always._

 **NEXT** : Rev up your Harley, strap on a helmet and let it roar. It's the annual Glades charity bike rally weekend. All the main players will be in attendance. Jax Teller will be there. So will Oliver Queen. Tara and Felicity too. Maybe nothing will happen? (Yeah, right.)


	12. Episode 12

" _ **For What It's Worth"**_

Thea, wearing a faded Steppenwolf t-shirt and jean capris, stood in the middle of the road. A few bikers hooted, hollered and whistled at her. Classic rock music blared from the SAMSTAR tent's loudspeakers.

Opie's Harley was to Thea's left, while to her right was a bike with ape-hangers. Its rider was bald Hispanic, a patched member of The Mayans – Portland MC. It was the first race on Saturday, but everyone knew that club honour and bragging rights were on the line.

A big white banner over the road declared that this was the Glades Memorial Annual Charity Bike Rally Weekend. Emblazoned on the banner in bold print were the words: 'With the generous support of Palmer Tech'. The rally's sponsorship was an annual last-minute crisis and Palmer Tech had stepped up this year to ensure another successful rally.

Thea grinned at both competitors and held a red handkerchief aloft in the air. "Ready … steady … GO!" The handkerchief went down and both motorcycles screeched down the road.

The Glades Municipal Park had taken on a carnival-like atmosphere with merry-go-round rides, the smell of cotton candy and popcorn in the air and several tents full of vendors hawking their foods and wares. Or, in the case of SAMSTAR, selling their branded merchandise (and recruiting potential new members under the table).

"Great job, Thea," Jax said as Thea walked back to the Community Alley area, where the local businesses and associations had set up their own tents. He had become acquainted with Thea a bit in the days leading up to the rally, as everyone in the community pitched in to launch this year's rally on time.

"Thanks, Jackson!" Thea said. "My ex took me to the rally a few years ago. All the bikes, the speed – it's a total rush. This is probably the biggest rally I've seen to date."

She was right. MC's from across the west coast, weekend warriors and casual enthusiasts flocked to the rally.

Bobby sipped a bottle of water. Since the Glades rally was a family-friendly event, both Jax and SAMSTAR's president mandated that alcohol, weed or bad behaviour would not be tolerated.

"I'm sure more than a few guys 'round here would be more than happy to take you for a spin around a bike, if you'd like," Bobby said. Jax looked at him, puzzled.

"Don't mind him," Jax said. "Hey, I heard about the Queen Foundation's donation to the hospital." Thea was chair of her family's non-profit foundation, the late Moira Queen's lasting legacy to the city. "That 50K is going to help a lot of kids in this neighbourhood."

"The Glades gets a bad rap in the news," Thea said, "but I know there are some good, hard-working people here. Everyone deserves a helping hand."

"You're the daughter of the late Robert Queen, big captain of industry," Jax said. "No offence, but I never expected to hear that sort of love for the Glades from someone of your, umm …"

"Pedigree?" Thea said. "Believe me, even though everyone saw me as daddy's little girl I was anything but. When I was young, I rolled with an unsavoury crowd, excessive drinking, party drugs …I was in a bad spot."

"I see," Jax said. "The Holy Trinity of addiction." With more than half of his MC having gone through some form of substance abuse, he could easily sympathize. "Been sober long?"

"Awhile now," Thea said. "My ex helped me turn the corner."

"Your ex sounds like a great guy," Jax said.

"He is," Thea said, and waved as Roy walked towards them. "Roy, the presentation for the Foundation's check is at 12 noon at the grandstand." She jabbed her finger into his chest. "You better be there."

"I will, I promise," Roy said. The look they exchanged immediately caught Bobby's attention. As Thea headed towards the SAMSTAR-run breakfast tent, Roy watched her go.

"You're … Thea Queen's ex-boyfriend?!" Bobby said. "I am totally impressed, brother."

Jax clapped Roy on the shoulder. "Nice work, dude. I take it that you and princess Thea had a Billy Joel- _Uptown Girl_ thing goin' on."

Roy smiled. "Something like that."

"What happened?" Bobby said. "Did Oliver Queen, Prince of Starling City not approve of you? Wait - was it the drugs?"

"Jesus," Jax said. "Roy doesn't have to answer any of your questions. You're ten times worse than the crow eaters, you big gossip-monger."

"Speaking of crow eaters," Roy said. A bevy of impossibly gorgeous crow eaters – all clad in leather, bustiers, spiked heels and tight jeans – streamed passed them.

A blonde with short-cropped hair stopped beside Bobby. "See you later tonight?"

"Absolutely, honey," Bobby winked.

"Is it just me, or do all the crow eaters here look like supermodels?" Jax said. "And not just the crow eaters - this city is full of beautiful people! They're everywhere. I don't get it."

Roy shrugged, oblivious to this trend in the city. "Maybe it's something in the water? Well, I better get to the merry-go-round. I'm supposed to be volunteering at the ticket booth and there are a whole lot of kids lining up already."

When Roy left, Bobby pulled Jax aside.

"The Italians will be here," Bobby said. "Marco's consigliere will be at the local Italian-American association's info booth. 11 o'clock. We should probably find out where the mafia lands on all the stuff goin' on with the Asians. The mob is our oldest friend in this town, and they will want some assurances all the moves we're making don't blowback on them, or their businesses."

Jax pulled a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it up. "Agreed."

The skirl of bagpipes and the thumping of drums distracted him. It was a parade, but not just any parade. The Starling PD police band marched down the road, with flags and polished badges blazing in the sun. Scores of uniformed officers marched to the drumbeat. In the rear were a dozen officers in full dress uniform, mounted on identical black horses.

"The cops are showing their support for the hood," Bobby said.

"No," Jax said. "Make no mistake – it's a show of force." He pointed out a pair of heavily armoured police wagons, parked discreetly behind some trees at the other end of the park. The rally was a charity event, but it was also an unofficial meet-up for the Glades' underworld players. Fights between local gangs had broken out in past rallies.

One of the mounted policemen, with gold braid epaulettes and in the formal regalia of a police captain, glared at the bikers.

"That's Captain Lance," Bobby said. "He's in charge of the city's anti-gang task force. He's got no love for the MC, I can promise you that."

Jax saluted Quentin in jest. He had to admit that the police captain was an imposing sight, with a small army of officers at his command. Quentin reined in his horse and guided it to the front of the SAMSTAR tent.

"Good turn out at the rally," Quentin said coolly. "Mr. Teller."

"Yeah, the neighbourhood looks forward to it every year," Jax said, taking a drag from his cigarette. "The locals love the Reaper. We've been part of the community for years. We look out for them."

"Tell that to Ahmed Patel," Quentin said, abruptly prodding his horse back to the police column.

Jax was confused. "Who's Ahmed Patel?"

Bobby's jovial mood evaporated. "He was the security guard who was killed at the port. He left a pregnant widow and a toddler too."

Jax stomped his cigarette butt into the pavement and glowered at the police parade. "Shit. He blames us for that."

Bobby hesitated, unsure if he should bring up a difficult issue. "Lance does have a point. If we do nothing about the port killing, it makes us look like we don't give a shit about the locals. Or worse, that we're involved somehow. Well, I'll be heading to the breakfast tent now and –"

Jax held his arm. "No way, Bobby. You around unlimited food and crow eaters? Not a chance. Tara's keeping tabs on the breakfast crew. See that big, bouncy castle down there? You'll be doing some actual work today, taking the kiddies' ride tickets."

Bobby frowned. "It's so far."

Jax rolled his eyes. "Dude, it's a two-minute walk, and your shift starts in five minutes! Come on, I thought you loved kids. Chibs can be my wingman with the Italians." Bobby sighed and lumbered towards the children's carnival area.

Amid the carnival rides and fast food trucks, Tara and MC prospect Phil were making their way to the SAMSTAR breakfast tent.

"I did what you asked, Tara," Phil said. "Got a twenty on Felicity Smoak, like you said. Is there any reason why we're digging into her? If it's related to the MC, we really should tell Jax about this."

"No!" Tara blurted, perhaps too hastily. She gathered her composure. "What I mean is … I'll fill you in, I promise, but just not now. All I can say is it's Gemma-related."

"Oh. Shit," Phil said. "Gemma? This isn't good."

Tara nodded. "It's Teller family stuff: Gemma, JT, Clay - all the history that connects them. Nobody can know, you understand?"

"I – I don't know," Phil hesitated. "I'm only a prospect. Maybe I should bounce all of this off Jax, or maybe Chibs." He began to head towards the main SAMSTAR tent where Chibs was conferring with other MC officers.

Tara held his arm. "No, none of them can know. At least not yet. If Gemma gets wind of it, we are all in trouble! You, me, the whole MC."

Phil's jaw dropped. "Tara, what exactly are in those letters?" Tara had mentioned to him earlier that Felicity may have accidentally picked up some personal letters during the purse snatching incident.

Tara wanted to confide in someone, but the notion that the club could find out about Clay's involvement in the death of John Teller made her stomach squirm.

"It's best you didn't know," Tara said. "I'm trying to protect my family, you understand? And believe it or not, I'm trying to protect you too. If Gemma finds out about those letters, and that we know about it, things could get messy. One: The MC would never make you a full patch. Two: I won't be able to keep my boys safe. The MC tasked you with protecting me and my boys, right?"

"Absolutely," Phil said. "I would take a bullet for you. And your sons. I love those little monsters!"

"Tell me what you learned about Felicity Smoak," Tara said, "and you'll be doing your duty. I'll make sure none of it blows back on you, me or – God willing – the MC."

Phil sighed. "Okay. Ms. Smoak is an IT chick/executive assistant at Palmer Tech. She used to work for Oliver Queen, before that Ray Palmer dude bought Queen Consolidated. Now she works for Mr. Palmer. She's dating him too. There's really not much else I could find out. Oh, and she likes caramel lattes. Skimmed milk with a dash of cinnamon. I spotted her at Starbucks during her break."

Tara nodded. "Good work, Phil. We're helping the MC by doing this. I promise. Plus, it's keeping both of us out of Gemma's crosshairs, which is always a good thing."

 _I'll have to deal with Palmer's 'Girl Friday' soon – before I leave Starling City_ , Tara thought.

Loud yelling interrupted her brief respite. A couple of crow eaters were shouting at Thea in the breakfast tent.

Thea looked upset. "I'm sorry to trouble you, Tara, but none of the MC's girls want to listen to me. The all-day breakfast should be up and running by now." A growing crowd of hungry rally attendees were already starting to line up for food. The crow eaters were lounging around, filing their nails or checking their phones for messages.

"I don't know who the hell she thinks she is," a heavily-tattooed crow eater said, "but Kate Middleton over here got no business tellin' us what to do, ain't that right ladies?" The other crow eaters nodded and smirked, hurling abuse and curses at Thea.

"Stupid rich bitch," another crow eater said. "Her daddy died on a yacht. Oh boo hoo!" Thea looked mortified.

"Hey!" Tara said. "You don't get to talk to her like that. Listen, and listen carefully, 'ladies'. This rally means a lot to the community, and not just to the MC. Thea is the daughter of Robert Queen. Yeah, that Robert Queen, the guy who helped John Teller – the founder of the whole goddamned MC – keep this bike rally afloat when the whole city was willing to write off the Sons and drive them out of the city."

"That's old history," the loud-mouthed ringleader retorted. "All that means shit now. She's no better than us, just cuz she got her dead daddy's trust fund in her pocket." She moved to confront Tara.

"Are you going to stop this?" Thea whispered to Phil.

"Oh hell no," Phil said. "Tara's sooo got this. You'll see."

Tara didn't give an inch. "You listen here, you dumb piece of gash. I'm Jax Teller's old lady! Show some respect." A hush soon enveloped the tent. Nobody said a word. Tara's status held serious weight here.

"This goes for all of you SAMSTAR crow eaters too. When you're in this tent, you're not just serving the community. You're representing the MC: Jax Teller's MC, the one his father built! You pull any shit that disrespects the Reaper during this rally - you're disrespecting the club and the VP of SAMCRO. If you'd like, I could have Jax come over and 'clarify' what that means to you."

Phil smirked as the crow eaters moved like lightning to get the eggs, bacon and home fries on the grill and cooking. He had never seen crow eaters move so fast.

The ringleader was chastened. "You're Tara Knowles? I-I'm sorry, we didn't know. We'll be ready in time for the crowd, ma'am. I'll keep the others in line too. You got my word on it."

Tara nodded. "Good. And you do whatever Thea asks you to do, got it? 'Cause if you don't, I'll hear about it. And so will Jax."

"Thanks, Tara," Thea said. The display was a bit unnerving to Thea, but she brushed these feeling aside. "That was truly … impressive." The MC had their own codes of conduct and she didn't pretend to understand them. It was evident that a SAMCRO officer's old lady commanded practically regal authority in their world.

 _And the funny thing is, everyone thinks I'm a princess in this city_ , Thea mused. At this rally, she began to appreciate that the only royalty that mattered was Tara Knowles and Jax Teller.

"Dealing with a couple of half-bright, half-baked, mouthy crow eaters? It's nothing," Tara said. "If they give you any more problems, just let me know. I'll personally smack some sense into them, if I have to."

"She will too," Phil added, with no hint of irony.

When Thea had left to handle arrangements for the Queen Foundation's noon-hour check presentation, Tara took Phil aside.

"We'll deal with the Felicity situation later," Tara said. "Like I said, everything we do at this rally reflects on the MC. We keep the cops out of our hair and put our best foot forward, etc."

"Copy that," Phil said, as he warily eyed the low-key but visible police presence at the rally.

As Oliver wrapped up his speech announcing the Queen Foundation's $50,000 donation to the Glades Memorial children's wing, Felicity and Ray arrived from the carnival area. Felicity tried to keep her composure but Ray's loud 1960's hippie costume was a gaudy, tie-dyed mess. She couldn't help but giggle at it.

"I'm embracing the spirit of the rally," Ray insisted. "These biker clubs were born in the Sixties. They are all about love and brotherhood!"

Felicity laughed. "Well, first of all don't _ever_ call them bikers. They're 'motorcycle enthusiasts'. And second – please promise me you're not going up on stage dressed as The Grateful Dead's tech-savvy love child!"

Her protest fell on deaf ears as Ray bounded up on stage, shook Oliver's hand in thanks for his donation and encouraged the audience to enjoy the rally weekend.

As he fielded questions from TV news crews, Oliver put on a smiling face even though he knew in his heart that he was not enjoying this rally at all. He saw the rally as an unofficial convention for every gangbanger and underworld boss in the Glades. It was a shallow PR stunt to him, nothing more.

He vaguely knew his father's association with underworld players like the Bertinellis and SAMSTAR, but he didn't dwell on it. His father thought that making compromises with people like Frank Bertinelli, Jimmy Fong, Galen O'Shay and John Teller would keep the peace in a troubled city, but Oliver couldn't see how this was possible. This history was part of the litany of his father's past misdeeds, as far as he was concerned.

Felicity watched the presentation and she could sense that something was amiss with Oliver, but she wasn't sure what it was. Oliver looked like he was playing a role on-stage, which in a sense he was. Oliver Queen's public persona – playboy and heir apparent to the now-diminished Queen fortune – was just not the man he was.

If that man ever existed, she thought, he died when the Queen's Gambit sank all those years ago.

Someone else came back from the island of Lian Yu.

Not far from the main stage, Jax and Chibs had returned from their meet-and-greet with the Italians.

"We good with the mob?" Bobby asked.

"According to Marco's consigliere," Chibs said, "as long as we don't upset the balance that exists between the Bertinellis and Fong's triad, they're ok with the MC branching out. They're uneasy about the instability in the wonton street gangs, but they think it's an internal beef that Fong will deal with. Marco will want a face-to-face to set boundaries going forward."

" _Don't shit on the gravy train_ ," Jax said. "His words, verbatim. The mob is big enough to stay out of the fray, just like the Chinese. Their neutrality could be both good and bad, depending on how it plays out."

"Aye," Chibs said. "We might get a freer hand in doing business in the Glades, but if things do go sideways – we're on our own and it'll be on us to clean it up."

Jax was already considering locking down existing relationships with the Glades' black street gangs, longtime allies and partners of the MC. He was unsure about the odds of forging new links with the Latino crews, who had been rivals and enemies of SAMSTAR for many years.

"Let's introduce ourselves to the Prince of Starling City," Jax said on a whim.

"Seriously?" Juice said. "He's an upper crust bigshot in town. He probably wants nothing to do with our club!"

"Might be a good idea to get a feel of where the junior Queen lands with the MC," Bobby said. "Robert Queen had relationships with many people, on both sides of the law. He was a pragmatist. Maybe the apple didn't fall far from the tree, if we're lucky."

"Lemme guess," Jax said, "the elder Queen knew JT too."

Bobby nodded. "The city was prepared to write us off decades ago. People like Robert didn't. He chose not to, when it would have been easier to go with the flow."

"Well boys, let's go make a new friend," Jax said and boldly strolled towards the stage.

Oliver's mood soured when he saw Jax and his entourage of full patch members walk towards him.

"Be nice, Oliver," Thea gently chided. "Jax is alright." For a brief moment, Oliver considered listening to Thea. His father had made compromises with criminals and the corrupt and powerful. Perhaps he would have to do the same for the city to survive. Not as the Arrow, but as Oliver Queen.

Jax was about to extend his hand to greet Oliver when Ray came out of nowhere and seized his hand.

"Jackson Teller?" Ray said. "I'm Ray Palmer. So glad you could come to the rally in person! I read all about John Teller helping to get the Glades hospital's children's wing up and running all those years ago. Very inspiring."

Jax was taken aback by Ray's enthusiasm and praise. "I should be the one thanking you, Mr. Palmer, for sponsoring the rally this year. The club appreciates it. Nice outfit by the way, it's, uh, very 'Summer of Love'. My old man would have dug it."

"Thanks!" Ray said, oblivious to the snickers from Juice and Chibs. "I made it myself." Felicity buried her face in her hands in embarrassment.

Before Jax could get another word in, a flurry of reporters had descended upon Ray.

Oliver had left the stage and thought the surprise media scrum would buy him some time to extract himself from the crowd, but Jax and his friends had inadvertently blocked his exit route.

"You might not know who I am, Mr. Queen, I'm -" Jax began.

Oliver looked at Jax's hand and the public gesture of friendship it represented. Thea's sensible advice evaporated in the noonday sun. _I cannot trust this man_. "Well … I know _what_ you are."

Jax was stunned at the forceful tone in Oliver's voice. "And what would that be exactly?"

"You're the vice president of a one-percenter motorcycle club," Oliver said. "A club that has thrived on the misfortune and suffering in the Glades for decades."

"I've heard your father felt differently about the Sons of Anarchy," Jax said, in an attempt to leverage Robert Queen's acquaintance with SAMSTAR and JT.

"My father was wrong," Oliver said bluntly. "He was wrong about many things." Thea pulled at Oliver's arm, urging him to calm down, with little effect.

Opie, who had just returned from winning his race against the Mayan biker, hauled his first-place trophy towards his MC brothers. None of them appeared to be happy about his victory at all. "Did I miss something, guys?"

Jax had stepped closer to Oliver. "Look, I get it. Your old man left you with some baggage. So did my old man. But the legacy of John Teller doesn't define me, not any more. Maybe the ghost of Robert Queen still defines you. You got something you wanna get off your chest? I'm right here, bro!"

He pounded his chest in a juvenile show of bravado, angry that Oliver had shunned his offer of friendship. But he sensed that Oliver was not one to back off. The odds were good that a man who survived five years on scorpions and banana leaves, stuck on a desolate island, probably could hold his own in any confrontation.

A few reporters had noticed the tense moment off-stage and were beginning to point towards Jax and Oliver. Only then did Ray notice that they were having an increasingly heated conversation.

Laurel, who had returned from participating in the three-legged race with children from the leukemia wing of Glades Memorial, approached Chibs. "What's going on with Oliver and Jax?"

"Jesus Christ," Chibs cursed under his breath. "Shit's all hitting the fan now, lass. In front of the press vultures and everyone at the rally. We've gotta get both those boys outta there - before their alpha male pissing match gets even uglier!"


End file.
